


Have You Met My Wife?

by starforged



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-02-28 07:24:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2723729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starforged/pseuds/starforged
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They've been married for ten years now, and there isn't a day that goes by that they don't think about each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This will be a three-part fic spanning the course of Elissa and Alistair's marriage, up through Inquisition. Spoilers eventually.

**i.**

Their wedding night is most unusual. But then, so is their marriage. He is the newly crowned King of Ferelden, and she is the Hero. Or at least, that’s what they’re calling her now. 

Elissa scrubs her face roughly, watching her skin bloom red, her perfect makeup destroyed. She stares at her face in the mirror and sighs. The pageantry was for Alistair’s benefit, for the benefit of a broken Ferelden. The curls in her hair are already coming undone, falling out of the elaborate diamond pins threaded throughout. She is a mess, and the thought brings a smile to her face. 

When she was young, her mother had tried to make a proper lady out of her. The thought stabs her through the heart. Her mother. Her _father_. 

“I must be a very poor husband if you’re already this upset. We’ve only been married for six hours,” Alistair sighs behind her. He stands some distance away, but there’s clear concern on his face.

Their wedding night is most unusual, because they have already been together - several times. Because they haven’t been since she asked him to have sex with Morrigan. Because she is the queen of a country he wanted no part in ruling. Because they have known each other for about a year, thrown together over the threat of annihilation. 

She straddles the bench in front of her, skirts bunched up around her thighs. “I was thinking.”

His eyes are on the bare expanse of tanned skin, searching over the scar that runs down past her knee. It takes him a moment to get back to her face, to focus his thoughts. And that’s fine with her, because she’s taking her time looking him over too. He’s crisply dressed in his formal armor, looking so unlike the filthy, dented, weary Warden she had fallen in love with. 

“I don’t want to have separate rooms,” she tells him. She pulls the pins out of her hair, one by one, feeling the weight of her curls hit her bare shoulders. 

“That’s not what you were thinking about,” he says. Reaching out, he helps her to take her hair down, running his fingers through her curls, brushing his hand over her skin. She shivers. “I have spent a long time watching you. Uh, what I mean is--”

“That you’ve spent a long time watching me,” Elissa laughs, taking his hand in hers and kissing the back of it. “You’re not quite subtle, darling husband.”

His hazel eyes widen, a dopey sort of smile taking over his face. Despite what they had been through lately, he looks happy. It makes her feel relaxed. “Your _husband._ I had not thought I would ever hear those words.”

“The husband part, or the mine part?” Elissa asks him. She slides off the bench, helping him to undo the straps of his armor. 

He smells divine, if she must say so. There hadn’t been a lot of time during the long procession to really take him in. Leaning in, she presses her lips to the pulse point at his throat and breathes him in. He makes a small noise of contentment in the back of his throat, the sound she knows so well. 

Sometimes she wonders if Morrigan got to hear that sound.

Sometimes Elissa hates herself for what she played part in. 

“Both,” he admits. “I’ve missed you.”

She gives a watery chuckle, resting her cheek on the clean fabric of his shirt as she lets his chestplate fall to their bedroom floor. It clangs against the stone, but she doesn’t care. She’s missed him. So painfully, that she wasn’t even aware of its depths until now. There’s been so much in the short month between the death of the archdemon that she hasn’t had time to think about him.

But now they are alone, so blissfully alone, for the smallest of seconds. 

“Tell me you forgive me.”

“Elissa--”

She tilts her head back, looking up at him. “Tell me you forgive me.”

His hands cup her cheek, thumbs brushing over her skin. He’s so quiet, that she knows he won’t. It was wrong of her to ask. It was wrong of her to convince him in the first place. It was wrong, everything was wrong. 

“I forgive you.”

The kiss she takes from him is hungry and desperate. 

They don’t even make it to the bed for the first few times.

**ii.**

They don’t go away to celebrate their marriage. Her mother used to talk fondly of the trip that her father had taken her on, before Fergus came along. But there’s no time for that now, not when Ferelden is in shambles and they are new to this whole “ruling a country” thing. Vacations are a thing of the past as they bumble their way into leadership.

She is the youngest daughter of a teyrn, skilled in running their home but indulgent. He is a bastard, tossed to the templars at first chance. But the Blight has taught Elissa what it is to be a ruler, if not a queen. She thanks the Maker, if there is even one, that Eamon doesn’t abandon them in these first few months. It’s practically hand holding, but she wants for Alistair to succeed more than anything.

The nobles look at him and see a mistake, but the people look at him and see salvation.

She looks at him and sees a king. He’s just a little rough in the making.

“What are you smiling about?” He finally looks up from his papers, his brows furrowed in distress, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “I’m trying to be kingly here.”

“You are very kingly. I feel myself swooning at the very sight,” she teases.

He sticks his tongue out at her. “I don’t believe you even know _how_ to swoon, Elissa. It seems not very you.”

She leans her elbows on his desk, her chin resting in the cup of her hands. “I could learn for you.”

He smiles now, bright and happy. It still has this weird effect of making her heart flutter, as if reminding her that she’s only just twenty now. Howe, the Blight. They have both aged too quickly and then accepted even more responsibility on top of that. Maybe they could have been happy as just Wardens, rebuilding their Order together. Maybe it was the better thing to do, but not so much the smartest.

Anora seemed capable, but this path feels right. 

“Now that would be a lovely birthday gift. Could I even be there to catch you?”

“I surely hope you don’t expect it to be Zevran who does the catching?”

His face flashes dark with jealousy. “No. No assassins with deft hands pawing all over you.”

“ _You_ paw. Zevran has way more finesse than that,” Elissa counters, leaning back in her chair. She crosses one leg over the other.

Alistair makes a rotten face, as if he’s smelled something awful. “Please don’t give me that mental image again. I might accidently award land to the wrong people, or - Maker forbid - grant rams access to the treasury.”

“Oh, now that would be a more exciting mess to clean up than”--leaning forward again, she picks up the letter he’s been attempting to read--“cabbage theft by darkspawn during the Blight.” She makes a face. “I’m not quite sure we can track down the thieves.”

“Honestly, I wasn’t even aware they ate vegetables,” Alistair says with surprise.

Elissa puts the notice back down. “Don’t compensate for the loss of the farm. It would mean the crown is at fault for something out of our control, and we really would get rams eating our coin.”

“You think so?”

“Trust me on this one. There’s only so much we can be accountable for.”

“I knew there was a reason I married you.”

“It wasn’t my charm and grace?”

“One of the many reasons.” He takes her hand and plants a kiss on the back of it.

**iii.**

“We haven’t been apart for one measly day in the year and a half since we met.” There is a definite whine in the King of Ferelden’s voice, and it makes her laugh.

It’s probably the wrong sort of reaction, but she can’t help it. “Then I think it’s high time I got a vacation from you, don’t you think? And just imagine what you will do with all of your free time!”

“Free time?” Alistair spreads his arms wide, looking around their bedroom. “My free time is well spent with you.”

She takes a seat in his lap, adjusting herself so that she’s comfortable, one arm slung over his shoulders. Leaning in, she presses her mouth to his in a short, sweet kiss. 

It’s the night before she is to leave. There are so few Wardens left to them in Ferelden, and despite the secondary title of “Queen”, apparently “Hero” comes first. Slayer of the archdemon. The only Warden known in history to slay one of the beasts and live to tell the tale. It makes her something of a legend and legends, well… They sometimes have to do things they don’t wish to.

She is to go to Amaranthine, to take command of the Keep, to lead the Wardens, to begin recruiting. And while she may joke, she doesn’t wish to be separate from Alistair anymore than he does. It’s unhealthy, she supposes, to haven’t really been away from him for longer than a day, if that. But they have experiences nobody else will ever know. Nobody else will ever quite get it the way they do. 

She worries about the nightmares and the fear that she will return and his Calling has happened or the castle has burned to the ground because he tried to make his own supper or that full out riots begin or--

“I know that look,” he sighs into the crook of her neck. 

“What look?” A shiver runs down her spine as his teeth graze her skin.

“The one where you’re worrying too much about me.” He pulls back to stare at her. “I am a responsible adult.”

“That is up for debate.” Her hands move to cup his face. It isn’t the same one that she looked into that day in Ostagar. That face was so young and naive. That face belonged to the innocent.

The one she holds now is sharp, dark circles under his eyes with a permanent wrinkle between his brows.

“I love you, Elissa,” Alistair tells her.

She snorts. “You’d be a fool not to.”

“I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Her lips press to his forehead. “One of us has to, and it’s not my blood in the royal line. I’m more expendable.”

His fingers thread through her flaming hair, tilting her head back so he can look into her eyes. “I am nothing without you, you realize. You’re what matters to me, Elissa. I would gladly abandon the throne if you wanted away from this.”

“No you wouldn’t,” she tells him in a soft voice. It’s a romantic sentiment, one Alistair is all too prone to. But she knows him better than herself. “You’re too honorable, for a king. For a Warden. You would never leave Ferelden.”

He makes a face. “I don’t know about that. I’m sure if you had sided with Loghain--”

She cuts him off with a harsh kiss. “You are the rightful king to the throne. You are the one who will keep Ferelden safe.”

“And you?”

“I suppose it’s my duty to help all of Thedas or some such. But I would gladly give it up for _you._ ”

His hand rests on her waist. “There is a romantic in you, you know.”

\-- 

Elissa leaves Barkspawn with Alistair. Once, a long time ago, she’s pretty sure her Mabari was named something else, but he seems to have taken the nickname with grace. He slobbers on her hand as she cups his face. “You’ll watch over him for me, won’t you? He’s kind of hopeless.”

A whine emits from the large dog’s throat, and her heart breaks. He can’t talk, but she can hear the sound of abandonment in his voice. Barkspawn _should_ be coming with her. 

“I know, boy. But I’d feel safer if you were here for Alistair.”

She leans in and gives her dog a big kiss on his wet nose. He sits back, whole body drooping. 

Next to him, Alistair looks just about the same. “I could hear you, you know.”

“Yeah, that was for your benefit.” She points a finger at him, poking into the armor plate on his chest. “You do _not_ let this dog out of your sight.”

“You worry too much,” he tells her gently, resting a hand on her shoulder. They’re surrounded by a crowd of people seeing her off, and she can tell he’s feeling awkward, embarrassed. 

She leans in to steal the kiss, not caring what people think. This is her husband, and she will kiss him where and when she pleases. A Cousland does not shirk back because of a crowd.

The girl (girl, she laughs to herself later, as if she’s any older than this prospect), Mhairi, wears a permanent blush as they mount their horses. She’s both her escort to Vigil’s Keep and a potential new Warden, and Elissa’s sure she hasn’t seen a face so red since the first time she flirted with Alistair.

**iv.**

“You fight like you’re missing something,” Oghren growls at her late one night after he’s put her to shame with drinking. She should have known better - if their time fighting the Blight hadn’t been enough, any man who could drain the joining chalice lived to tell the tale, you shouldn’t challenge him to a drinking contest.

Her head rests on his meaty shoulder, the alcohol deadening her senses to the point where she can’t even smell him.

“Alistair,” she mutters in her half-full glass. “He’s always right right _right_ there.”

“You’re a pathetic sort of commander,” the dwarf laughs, stealing his glass and draining it, too. “Whining over here about your husband. Nut up!”

She snorts, rolling her eyes to look up at him. “I’m not the one wanting me to help you with your son.” She tugs on his beard before forcing herself to sit up.

Bad decision. Her head swims, and her stomach feels like it’s going to come out of her mouth entirely. 

“So, we’re both pathetic. Whatever.” He belches. “Gotta learn how to fight without him, cupcake.” A meaty paw squeezes her thigh. “You’ve got me. Don’t forget that. I’ll swing my axe and look better than that pretty boy.”

His images doubles right before her eyes, and what a horrifying idea, _two Oghrens_. But she still manages to smile, a happy flutter in her chest. “I’m glad you’re here with me, you smelly dwarf.”

“Nowhere in the world I’d rather be than at your side,” Oghren chortles.

She has the vague memory of Nathaniel finding the two of them passed out together on a pallet of straw. With a sigh, he picks her up, waking her. “I doubt the Warden-Commander should be found in her cups.”

“I think I’m dying,” she moans miserably, each step pounding in her head. 

“The king must have a vast well of patience,” he mutters.

Reaching up, she grabs his nose and tugs a bit. “I forget.”

“Forget what?”

“What he sounds like.”

She wakes up tangled in her sheets the next morning, mouth dry, head fuzzy, and only mildly embarrassed at the stupid shit she said to Nate when he was trying to tuck her in and reassure her. 

**v.**

Sometimes, Alistair will find Teagan shoving his elbow none-too-gently in his side to get him to _pay attention_ as one of the most boring arls he’s ever had to speak continues to go on and on about something. Deer, possibly. Hunting? That’s it, hunting.

Alistair doesn’t particularly care for hunting. Swinging a sword around at some poor animal for sport isn’t his sort of thing. He’s sure Elissa would love it, though. Not the sword swinging or the innocent slaughter, no. The hunt, yes. Not that she’s here to enjoy such trappings of royalty.

There’s another elbow that catches him in the ribs and makes him splutter out loud as he stumbles. Teagan sighs as the old arl flaps his hands like the birds whose feathers adorn his collar. 

“Forgive me, your majesty,” Teagan says as though he hadn’t just tried to take the king out of his misery. “I thought I saw a bee.”

“Oh, excellent. Perhaps I should vacate the room in that case. Terribly allergic,” Alistair stage whispers to the arl whose name he has already forgotten. Or he is teyrn? Bann? Maker knows. 

Elissa is much better at this politicking than he is. 

The man’s eyes widen all the same, a hand pressed to his chest. “You wouldn’t do so well on the hunt then, King Alistair.”

“A pity, really,” he murmurs, trying to mimic his wife. It draws a confused look out of the noble, whose eyebrows scrunch together to make one giant, hairy worm as he looks to Teagan.

Andraste’s knickers.

“No worries, Arl Edward, our gracious king will be there first thing in the morning.” Teagan slaps Alistair hard on the back, his fingers digging at the scruff of his neck. “Isn’t that right, Alistair?”

“Oh, yes.” He gives a shaky grin. “I wouldn’t miss it for the whole world. This one. That my wife saved, you know,” he begins to blather.

Edward gives a bemused smile in return. “And where is our brave queen?”

“Out.” Alistair thinks he’s managed to swallow back the note of self-pity in that one word. “She is still the only Warden in Ferelden that can be called Commander.”

Fighting darkspawn sounds so much more easier than being king.

With a sigh, following Edward’s departure, Alistair melts into a chair. “Maker, I’m a terrible king.”

Teagan takes a seat next to him. “You’re worried about her. You miss her.”

“Well, that’s obvious. She’s my whole - what I mean to say is, she’s a very good queen, very good. And pretty! Have you seen her? Not that I would care if she wasn’t pretty, plenty of people aren’t fond of that shock of red hair.” He’s rambling again. Pausing, he takes a breath. “She’s good at this sort of this thing. I feel like a performing animal at the best of times.”

Teagan pats his hand. “Performing animals are better at their job,” he says kindly. “Elissa will be _fine_ , Alistair. And you need to learn how to be better at this without her. Like you said, she’s the only one who can hold the title of commander.”

Alistair really hates having his own words thrown back at him.


	2. Chapter 2

**i.**

Elissa doesn’t even have to close her eyes to see the broodmothers in front of her still. They’re like a living nightmare. She had fought one, once, one of the poor dwarven women of Branka’s group. She still has nightmares about that one, too, and the song… That Maker-awful song. 

But when she rolls over at night, her bed is empty save for her.

She scrubs a hand over her face and pinches her cheeks to wake herself up.

“Commander?” Sigrun’s cheerful little voice is soft now, worried. 

“Ah, just didn’t sleep very well,” she mumbles back carefully. 

_Commander_. She is their leader, and the whole keep is watching her. Tired, upset, needy? Those are things she can’t be in front of people. She so sorely misses her husband, though, feels it beat along her skin. Their letters aren’t enough for her.

The dwarf lays a hand on Elissa’s arm. “If you need to talk, I’m all ears. I mean, I’m all mouth, too, but I think I can learn to shut up if you need it.”

Her lips quirk into a smile. She misses Alistair, but Elissa is slowly learning that this is where she belongs too. She is a Warden, and she has to say, the adventure calls to her as much as it weighs her down.

“It’s noth--”

“Look, I get the whole big bad leader thing. You’re the Hero of Ferelden! You’ve saved a whole country from the Blight but here are the dawkspawn and some crazy talking ones and,” Sigrun takes a breath, “all I’m saying is that sometimes it’s good to talk. We’re all Wardens here.”

“How about instead we get a drink? My treat.”

Sigrun watches her for a second before shrugging. “Okay, but, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into here.”

They sing drunken songs well into the night that make absolutely no damn sense at all, but it helps to get her mind off of things. 

**ii.**

She has been gone four months and three day, and Alistair is not the least bit ashamed to admit he’s been counting off the days. She writes him about once a week, and he’s ashamed to admit that he’s penned more to her than actually did any of those diplomatic things he’s meant to be doing. 

He’s learning quickly that he’s somewhat of a terrible king, if any of the eavesdropping he’s done on fellow guests has taught him anything. Oh, and that the servants love him. It’s why he gets extra things at meal times. It pays to have come from nothing, apparently.

Or maybe they just take pity on the big, moping moron - Ser Ellen’s words, not his. Another one of those eavesdropping moments. He’s never quite seen any person turn that shade of red without actually being on fire before. 

It’s disheartening, he supposes, that he isn’t as good at this as he ought to be. He can see the thin lines of disappointment in Eamon’s face every time Alistair suggests something that isn’t what he would do. But if he wanted to be the king, he should have thrown his name into the hat with the rest of them.

Alistair never wanted this. He wanted _her_ , Elissa. He wanted a life that didn’t involve ruling a country he doesn’t know how to. 

It’s disheartening because they’re right, and sometimes he dislikes his own wife for pushing him this way and then abandoning him. 

“You’re being hard on yourself,” Teagan says in a staunchly pitying tone of voice.

Alistair makes a face. “There’s a reason that he never claimed me, you know. Maybe he always knew I’d be the pathetic one.”

Teagan pushes his fork over a nearly empty plate. “I loved my nephew,” he begins to say. “But he was not a wise king. Too fanciful, I think. That was his mother in him. She was filled with stories of glory, too.”

Alistair’s fingers tap along the table top. “I am filled with stories of glory.”

“No, you’ve _lived_ them. There is a difference.” The man sighs, looking over at the young king. “You’re new to this, practically a child yourself.”

Alistair makes another face but he has a point on that. He _is_ young. “Go on, I feel like you have more to say. And why wouldn’t you? Everyone has an opinion.”

The flickering candlelight casts shadows over Teagan’s face. “What has happened that has put you in such a sullen mood? You nearly ruined the hunt yesterday.”

“I hate hunting.”

Elissa is what happened. More importantly, the letter she had him burn most immediately before anyone else could find out the truth. Talking darkspawn, intelligent darkspawn. The creator of their most recent Blight, and she… She let the thing _go_. Just let him waltz free like it was nothing, like being a Warden meant nothing. 

But he can’t say this to Teagan. He can’t tell his friend Warden secrets. Maker’s breath, he can’t tell anyone these kind of secrets, and the one person who he can has barely talked to him and hasn’t breathed a word about her return, either.

“You will have to grow up sometime, my king.”

**iii.**

“You’re leaving?” Nate asks her as she finishes packing a single bag. There’s not much else that Elissa needs to take with her back home. 

She pauses to glance over her shoulder, flicking a strand of red hair out of her face. “Let’s see, imminent threat to Ferelden taken care of? Check. New Warden recruits? Check. Leaving my second in charge of his old homestead? Check. I am ready to return home.”

There’s a flicker of emotions over his face that she isn’t quite sure where they stem from until he settles on a drawn brown and puckered lips and narrowed eyes. “You’re leaving me in charge when I have barely--”

“Out of all these people, there is literally nobody I would trust more than you,” she interrupts him, tying off her bag for good. There. That’s it. After a moment, she slides her wedding ring back onto her finger. The weight is both foreign and comforting. 

His gaze flickers to the movement before he’s looking back up at her, and she can _swear_ that there is color in his cheeks. “Your home is here.”

“My home is in Denerim,” she argues, but there’s part of her that doesn’t believe that. Her home is with Alistair, and it’s with the Wardens. These past few months have taught her that. “I’m still the Warden-Commander, Nate. I’ll be back.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, that scowl of his taking up residence on his face once more. She smiles as she steps closer to him.

“Your face will get stuck like that,” she teases.

“With you gone, perhaps I will finally have time to relax.”

Elissa didn’t think it possible, after the murder of her family, that she would find a friend in Rendon Howe’s son. But as she gives Nate a farewell hug, leaning into his comforting warmth, she realizes that she has. That they’re bonded in a way that nobody else can ever understand. 

The next time she has to leave her husband, at least she knows she will have family waiting for her. 

**iv.**

Her homecoming is quiet and unannounced, despite the ten letters folded in her bag from her husband this past week. She is the queen, they should be having some fancy party in her honor. But the idea of it makes her stomach turn. Later, she promises herself. Later she will be the queen that Ferelden deserves.

She slips into the castle at Denerim with a sly smile to the guards who happen to be on duty that night. By morning, the whole world will likely know that she’s returned to her throne, but for tonight, that doesn’t matter. 

That doesn’t matter.

Her heart pounds in her chest as she makes her way through the twisting hallways until she finally finds herself in their wing, before their bedroom door, and then she pauses. What if he’s asleep already? She could crawl into bed and let him wake up with her arms around him, or she could wake him up, or she could - Maker, she could do anything she wants to do because she’s _home_ , and she has missed him so ferociously that it’s threatening to drown her.

Her fingertips press to the door. Maybe she should just wait until the morning. Maybe she should have written to say she was coming. Maybe the party would have been a better idea.

On the other side of the door, she hears a whimper, and Elissa doesn’t bother to stifle her laugh. Four months, and he’s probably let her dog sleep with him the entire time. 

A bark now, and Alistair’s grumbled response that she can’t make out. 

With a smile, she leans her forehead against the door.

And she knocks.

“It’s the middle of the night! Doesn’t anyone respect sleep? Especially the king’s,” he calls out, and she listens to the shuffle of his heavy feet and the good-natured curse he levels at Barkspawn.

With a grin, she knocks again.

“I’m coming! I’m coming, what’s the rush, it’s not like there’s”--the knob turns--“a fire or anything, right?” The door opens. “Or maybe it’s just a ghost playing… tricks…”

“You’re an idiot,” she laughs in his face before throwing her arms around him.

He catches her automatically, tugging her into a bone-breaking embrace before his mouth crashes against hers so imperfectly that she might explode with happiness. His hands cups her face when he manages to break away, fingers sliding through her travel-weary hair. 

“Why are you here?”

“I could leave again, if you’d like. Give you time to the slip the mistress out.”

The way he’s looking at her, like she’s a star, like she is the universe, causes a warmth to settle in her body. His hands search her now, as if he’s trying to memorize her all over again. Not that she isn’t doing exactly the same, letting her fingers wander where her gaze leads. 

“I can’t even think of a clever and witty response to that,” he murmurs, kissing her again. And again. It’s short and sweet and leaves her wanting more. His lips brush her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids.

“You’re not as witty as you like to think,” Elissa tells him. 

Alistair laughs. “I have missed you, dear wife, and your insults. Nobody quite knows how to hurt me like you do.”

Her lips touch the corner of his mouth. “I can make it up to you like nobody else can, too.”

\--

Elissa wakes up groggily the next morning, a stream of sunlight hitting her in the face conveniently. There’s a warmth pressed against her bare back, a weight on her waist, and she smiles as she threads her fingers through Alistair’s. For the first time in months, she didn’t have to drink to keep her nightmares at bay.

Behind her, he stirs a bit, nuzzling into her hair with a sigh. “‘m not getting up today.”

“You don’t get to stop being king,” she laughs softly.

“Just one day.”

“Afraid not, my love.” 

His lips brush over her shoulder. “Pretty pretty please?” A kiss presses into the side of her neck. “We can just stay in bed all day. I’ve earned the rest.”

Elissa turns around so that she’s facing him. Her mouth eases over his, and she doesn’t even care about the morning breath. In fact, she decides right then and there that she’s missed it. And the way his hair looks after sex. And how warm his body is against hers. 

She breaks the kiss and grins with satisfaction at the groan of disapproval. Before he can say anything, however, she’s already pushing him back onto the bed, her hands on his shoulders as she straddles his hips. The groan, now, settles in her belly as her grin turns wicked.

“Oh, if you thought there would be rest involved in staying in bed, you were much mistaken,” Elissa tells him.

“Oh no, what will I ever do…”

They don’t really leave the room for the next two days. It’s the best vacation she’s had in years.

**v.**

“You seem happy,” Fergus says to fill up the silence that’s settled between the two of them. 

Elissa stops and takes a seat on one of the low stone walls in the gardens behind the palace. Her brother takes a seat next to her, stretching out his long legs. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, watching the way the sunlight moves through his reddish hair and thinks that he looks an awful lot like their father in this moment.

A lifetime ago, conversation between them wouldn’t be so stunted. She’d know what to say, what joke to make, that would get him to roll his eyes and suck his teeth at her.

“You seem alive,” she points out. “What do I have to do to keep in contact with you?”

That brings a smile to his face as he looks at her. “I’m not the one who became some big hero and then the queen, pup.”

She almost winces at the use of the nickname but manages to swallow it back. “Yeah, I know. I guess I’m just as unreachable these days.”

He rests a hand over hers. “I know you’re worried about me, but I am okay. Some days are harder than others, but--”

“I just don’t like the idea of you being trapped in that stone tomb with all of their ghosts.” A lump forms in her throat, and she tries to breathe through it and _can’t_. She can’t, and she doesn’t even remember the last time she’s cried before. 

Fergus leans in, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “Dearest little sister, it’s their ghosts that make it okay. I miss you there, though.”

“I miss it, too,” she whispers. “But I can’t go back. Not yet.”

“I know.”

**vi.**

All too soon, Elissa is gone again. They had been planning some party - at Isolde’s insistence. Alistair decides it’s because Orlesians are strange. A party isn’t needed for every little thing, and besides that, he hates the stuffy clothes he’s forced to wear and the boring conversation. The only consolation he has is the promise from his wife about the dress she’ll be wearing - and what, exactly, she _won’t_ be wearing.

But then she’s gone, exactly one month after her arrival and two days before this fast-planned ball.

To say it’s a drag is an understatement. The woman of the hour is missing, after all. 

Warden business, she says. There’s a haunted look in her dark eyes when she tells him that, straightening out his shirt for him. She stares at his throat rather than his own gaze, but he sees the sadness that’s welling up inside of her. Not because of her reluctance to go. Because of her willingness to leave. 

He tastes it on her lips as they say their goodbyes.

Alistair still tastes it now. 

“You look forlorn, my friend. Is it because a certain beautiful scarlet queen has gone missing?” The light lilt of Zevran’s voice is enough to make Alistair’s eye twitch. 

It’s the hand that pats his bottom gently that has him growling. “Hey! Don’t - that isn’t for _you._ ”

“Her property, then?” The elf’s eyes are bright with mischief, a devilishly handsome smirk on his face. 

Wait, that isn’t what he meant to think.

“How did you even get in here?”

“Oh, you know. You say you are a friend of the King and Queen, that you have helped to save them all from the Archdemon, give a little wink… It is easy.” Zevran shrugs. “I am a man of many talents.”

“So I have heard,” Alistair says grumpily. 

They’re standing outside of the ballroom on a balcony, and he isn’t quite surprised to see the assassin here. And he isn’t really that irritated to find himself alone in his company, either. Funny how saving the world together does that sort of thing to someone. 

“She sent you, didn’t she?” the young king asks after a moment of silence. 

Zevran is leaning with his back against the rail, watching the stiff Ferelden nobility drink themselves silly. 

“I am offended and deeply hurt that you would think I would not come to see you myself. Here I thought we were good friends.”

Alistair squints at him. 

“Actually, I was invited to the party, but it seems she has run out on the both of us. She’s quite good at that, I hear.”

Alistair grunts in return, and he must have done something because the next thing he knows, Zevran is cupping his face and lifting his cheeks up.

“You are quite the sullen puppy without our dear Warden.”

**vii.**

She does not return after her Deep Roads expedition, and she does not tell him of the nightmares the Harvester brings her. 

In fact, Elissa spends some time in Vigil’s Keep, helping with the repairs alongside of Sigrun. Warden business, she writes to Alistair, and ignores the pain in her heart at the partial lie. He doesn’t understand, even though he should. He’s a Warden, too, but he is King.

More and more she begins to feel like a parody of what she meant to be. 

He threatens her just once. He threatens that he will abandon the throne and come after her, and that will be that.

So Elissa plans to go home to Denerim only until she receives a message about a sighting of Morrigan. Her heart nearly stops. Her breath grows shallow. Her eyes narrow in on the text in her clenched fingers, but she can’t seem to actually read the words, not at first.

She’s been searching, in her spare moment, even though she knows Alistair would hate it. But she’s been searching. Morrigan is her friend. Morrigan has had Alistair’s child. Morrigan, Morrigan, Morrigan.

Casting a glance at Barkspawn, who had refused to let her leave without him this time around, she smiles. “Are you up for an adventure, boy?”

\--

The King of Ferelden refuses to leave his bedroom for two days after the missive from his wife.

_I’m searching for Morrigan._


	3. Chapter 3

**i.**

Elissa can’t say she’s ever made the most wise decisions before. She’s made a lot of stupid ones in a world where she can’t afford to, but she stands there for a long time even after Morrigan is gone, and she regrets it. The mirror is still, reflecting back at her the face of someone haunted, her face hollowed out and grimy with dirt, blood, who knows what else. Her hair is limp and messy, and her eyes sunk in. 

She watches herself for so long, that Finn and Ariane decide to build a campfire for the night. But she waits for Morrigan to return, she waits for time to double back.

She wants to say she’ll go with Morrigan. Let her say that she’ll go, to protect her friend and her husband’s son.

And that’s why she didn’t, she reminds herself over and over.

She stayed for Alistair.

In the end, it’s Finn that comes for her, his touch gentle as he leads her away from the dead eluvian. 

“You need to eat, Elissa. No sense in starving yourself.”

“I have no idea how I’ll explain this to the Keeper,” Ariane says lightly, passing over a bowl of Finn’s soup to her.

It’s hot to touch, but Elissa wraps her hands around it anyway. 

“You? How will explain this to anyone at the tower? Andraste’s knickers, the outside world is a strange place. At least I’ll have something to tell Mother about.”

“How much are you going to tell her?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and Elissa looks up to stare at his horror stricken face. It’s a straight forward question, but as usual, Finn takes it to extremes. 

“Maker, you’re right. She’ll worry too much and come for me if I tell her anything that actually happened. Flower picking sounds exciting, doesn’t it?”

The elf’s nose wrinkles. “No. Not even a little bit.”

Next to her, Barkspawn settles on his belly, moving his head into her lap when she moves her bowl for him. He gives a soft whine, a bit of consoling as her heart breaks and heals itself over and over. She eats slowly, soaking in the conversation of her companions. It helps. 

\--

Elissa hugs Finn tightly. “Let me know whenever you want another jailbreak from here. Now that you’ve gotten a taste of freedom, you might not want to give it up.”

He makes a disagreeable noise. “Oh, Maker no, please write me off your adventuring calling card.” But he hugs her back just as tightly and promises to keep in touch. 

She stands back and watches the awkward dance between him and Ariane, and part of her wants to shove them together. Now’s not the time for that. They’ll figure it out eventually, she thinks.

“Do not be so hasty to tell the great queen no just yet, mage. You might make a good Warden.”

Finn manages to turn the white of freshly fallen snow.

**ii.**

They leave in the tower where he feels the most secure, his lip wibbling a little as he watches them go. Elissa travels back to the forest with Ariane, who doesn’t question her, even as she rejoins her clan. They invite the Hero of Ferelden in to stay with them, and she takes them up on the offer. After all, it is rare for the Dalish to welcome a shem so readily.

Days blur together into weeks, and she sits at the feet of women far older than her, learning how to stitch bear fur together into blankets. She writes letters, of course, or what could pass for letters if someone squinted hard enough. Alistair has enough on his plate to worry about without wondering where she is so that he can come fetch her personally. Let him think there’s another mission, some other duty keeping her from returning. 

It’s for the best.

She’s finishing up her blanket when Ariane takes a seat next to her. The fire crackles next to the them, the light of the flames dancing shadows across their faces. Reaching out, her face pinched, Arianna places a hand over Elissa’s to still its movements.

“I… am not good at this sort of thing, but I think you need to talk. You are not Dalish, Elissa, and we are not your Wardens. Why are you here?”

“I shouldn’t have let Morrigan go alone.”

“The witch decided her fate, and you decided yours. You’re needed here, and yet you’re _hiding_. That’s not the Hero everyone talks about.” Her face is so seriously, her voice deadly, that it would make anyone sit up straight and listen.

Elissa is listening, at least. “Nobody knows me.”

“I know you,” she disagrees. “You care deeply for your friends, and what the witch did to you - You hurt. But your husband must be hurting too. Your other friends.”

A beat. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. People who worship the Hero don’t know me.”

“I will give you that one.”

Ariane slips her fingers around Elissa’s holding lightly, awkwardly. “You blame yourself.”

“There are things you don’t understand.”

She had let Morrigan go without so much as even seeing the child, Alistair’s child. A flutter of sadness beats against her chest. The only child he will likely ever have, and it is Morrigan’s, and he is gone. What will she say to Alistair? How could she begin to tell him of all the ways she failed in this?

“I understand that you’re running away,” Ariane told her, tone harsh.

Elissa presses her lips together, glaring at the elf. “What of it?”

She’s still just a child. Doesn’t anyone see that about her? That she’s barely even three and twenty, and here she is: ruler, savior, wife. She can run away if she likes, put herself back together as she tries to understand the world she’s living in. The horrors she’s had to see and endure.

Ariane doesn’t say anymore, but the older warrior doesn’t really have to, does she? Her words are already out there, a gentle accusation. It cuts Elissa deeply, and that’s what they were meant to do. That was the point of it all. She is running from her duties, and that’s not the kind of woman she is anymore. 

Young or not, she has taken on these responsibilities. Oh, how her father would be disappointed in her. 

How Alistair must be, with such a poor excuse for a partner.

Her fingers wrap tightly around Ariane’s, and she doesn’t speak either. There’s no need to now.

**iii.**

A visitor stirs the Dalish like a rough wind through a meadow, and they’re on high alert just as Elissa finishes securing her pack to the hart mount they have given to her. 

Brow knitted together, she turns to one of the younger hunters. “What is going on?”

“The young king is here,” the boy grumbles, his fingers plucking at the string of his bow. 

There’s only one king that would really matter - especially one so young. Her hands shake. That sly woman. She closes her eyes and lets out an amused puff of air.

Ariane must have written to him behind her back. One way or another, her friend was going to send Elissa on her way. 

Turning on her heel, she runs through the camp until she finds one lone Alistair standing awkwardly beside his horse, Barkspawn at his heels, bouncing and barking. The Keeper speaks to him in a low voice, her face tilted to him as they speak. There is a tension in the air, but mostly people are waiting. Watching. 

She knows the instant that Alistair has spotted her, because he stops listening. His eyes glaze over, and he doesn’t speak. He watches her as she comes to a stop, panting softly for breath from the run. The Keeper glances over her shoulder at Elissa before stepping aside. 

A good thing, Elissa reckons. Because otherwise, she’s sure that Alistair would have just pushed her over in his attempts to get to his wife. But there he is, taking long strides to get to her, and she breaks into another run. To him, this time, and not away. Because he’s what she needs more than anything. 

They collide, awkwardly, almost painfully, but she doesn’t care as she buries her face in his sweaty neck and breathes in the scent of the forest on him. Trees and horses and sweat and something just distinctively Alistair. 

“Maker’s breath, you miserable woman,” he hisses at her, his arms tight around her back as he lifts her off the ground and cradles him to her. “Going missing like that. I thought I’d go crazy, and here you are, playing elf without me.”

She goes for a laugh, and the sound comes out as more of a sob. “Please tell me you didn’t abandon the throne.”

“It’d serve you right if I had.”

“It would.”

And then she’s really crying.

\--

The clan offers to let them stay for the night, but Elissa declines in prettier words than Alistair’s would have been. The way his arm tightens around her waist, the scowl playing on his mouth, she knows better than anyone that he wants nothing more than to be alone with her.

They camp a few miles away, in the heart of the Brecilian forest. He sits next to her on the hard ground, knees touching but little else as she pokes the fire into brilliance.

She wishes that Alistair wanted them alone so that she could rip his clothes off; she’s thought of little else since she first laid eyes on him. As if sex will cure her of this sadness, of her failures. As if she could fuck him until there was nothing left of herself but him. 

It’s a good thing he’s a little more emotional about this sort of thing than she is. 

The fire plays with the colors in his eyes, making them look like dwarven gold. They’re beautiful and sad and hesitant as he watches her.

“Elissa…” He starts and stops, running his fingers through his still-damp hair. 

“Do you want to know what happened, Alistair?”

“With the - with Morrigan?” She can see that he doesn’t, and she can see that he does, for her sake.

He takes her hand in his, threading his fingers between her own. He’s warm and inviting and sometimes too perfect. Like now.

“She’s gone.”

“As in dead?”

Elissa shakes her head. “Just gone to where she wants to go. I didn’t - there wasn’t a child with her, so I can only assume he’s--”

“A son,” he murmurs, and there’s a strange sort of longing in the word that she doesn’t think he meant to have.

“She offered to take me with her.”

That surprises him. “You wanted to go, didn’t you?”

“Part of me did. It’s the idea of the adventure, and I guess - I haven’t been a very good wife, Alistair. Or a good queen. I thought that this was what was right for Ferelden, when I made you take that throne from Anora and decided to rule with you. I thought that this was what I could do to make the world a better place,” she whispered at the fire. 

“You’re a good friend, though,” he says after a long moment of silence. The weight of the forest presses down on her. “That’s always been your saving grace. Even to me. I did not want to be king, and some days, I still don’t,”

“I feel like there’s a but here.” Elissa turns her head so that her gaze falls on him now. 

“I don’t think there is any right sort of person meant to lead, and Maker knows I do much better when given direction. But that’s why I agreed to it, Liss.” Alistair leans in, brushing his lips against her temple. “You said you would be at my side, and I thought, Andraste bless Ferelden, because with me and this woman together, we have a fighting chance at getting this ruling thing just right.”

“And here I am, abandoning you at any given moment,” she whispers in a choked voice. Her shoulders shake with silent tears. 

He kisses those too, his mouth following each trail before they can make it to her jaw. “Yes, well, let’s just say that I have been able to find my own political footing in this past year. Not that it’s a very good footing, but I’m willing to have someone help me get better at it. Someone _preferably_ not Teagan.”

“Preferably me?” 

Both hands come to cup her face. “You have suffered a lot, Elissa, but you don’t have to do it alone. I will follow you to the Fade and back, if that’s what you wish. But just this once, can we do what I want? Can we go home and have you stay put for longer than a few months?”

She nods, slowly, with the weight of his hands on her. “Are you mad about Morrigan?”

He pulls back a bit, a thoughtful expression on his face. “No. I’m glad she is alright, and that the baby is. But you are what matters to me. I’d have been mad if you left me.”

“Not again,” she promises. She takes back the space he had moved, easing her lips over his. He eagerly kisses her back.

“Say it just once more.”

“I won’t leave you again, Alistair.”

They both know it’s an empty promise. Of course she will, but not like this, Elissa decides. She won’t leave him willingly if there isn’t a good cause for it. She won’t hide from him anymore.

His hands are warm when they slip under her shirt, but she shivers all the same. He pushes her back to the ground as her hands slide inside of his trousers, her legs hooking around his to bring him closer.

It has been a _long time_ since she’s been with him, after all.

**iv.**

King Alistair and Queen Elissa of Ferelden take their time returning to Denerim, enjoying their time together. They call it their honeymoon, and Teagan makes sure to watch over the throne as they do so. 

They’ve earned it, the people of Ferelden say, when they host the couple in their towns.

**v.**

Alistair brings her home to Highever for the first time since she escaped with Duncan. 

They stand in front of Duncan’s memorial, hands clasped together. 

“He’d be proud of you,” Elissa tells him. 

“Do you really think so?”

She smiles, standing on her toes so that she can kiss his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

His face erupts into the biggest smile she has ever seen before, his arms around her waist before she can protest as he lifts her off the ground and swings her around. There’s a weight of happiness that flits through her veins. Pure happiness, the kind she has not felt since before her family’s massacre. He goes in for a quick kiss before putting her back down on her toes. 

“You see that, Duncan, who would have thought that the girl you saved would become my wife,” Alistair says to the stone statue. “I’m glad you saved her.”

For the first time, Elissa can truly say that she’s glad, too. She’s so glad that she wasn’t left to die.

“Come on. Fergus is expecting us,” she says gently.

As they walk away, she glances over her shoulder to the memorial, whispering a silent thank you to the man who had given her every chance at a new life. She hadn’t been able to appreciate what Duncan did for her. Not before.

**vi.**

Their last stop before their long, winding journey home is at Vigil’s Keep. Alistair is, after all, still a Warden. That will never go away. And he has yet to see their command post. 

Yet to meet her friends, her other family. 

He’s opened with welcomed arms. 

He fits in right away. 

She watches as he plays a drinking game with Sigrun and Oghren, losing badly, a sad smile on her face. This is the life they could have had. Nate comes to sit on the table next to her. 

“You look happy,” the man tells her, and she shoves her shoulder into his gently. 

“I am, despite all your joking.” She glances at him. “I hear Anders escaped.”

“He was always good at that, you know. It’s why you had to conscript him in the first place, if you remember.” It’s said lightly, but there’s a heaviness to the subject matter. Nate doesn’t want to worry her, but he doesn’t want to sugarcoat the truth. She gets that. 

Alistair laughs, looking up at her - at the two of them - as his brow scrunches together in concern. She mouths the word _later_ at him, waits for his nod before going back to his game, before she responds to Nate.

“How many of us did he take out?”

“A handful. A small number, but large when you consider our lack of recruits.”

_Anders_. Maybe she should have kept a better eye on him, did something to help. “Let him go,” she finally says.

Nate’s quiet, but not surprised. “Are you sure?” They both know she is, but it’s a formality to double check.

Elissa nods. “We have more important things to worry about, with the disappearance of the Architect as well.”

“I wouldn’t call that a disappearance so much as we’ve lost his coordinates.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better, you realize.” She digs out dirt from under her nails. “I am going to be going away for some time, Nathaniel. Home, with Alistair.”

He nods slowly. “I’ll take care of things. You know I can handle this.”

“Can this still be my home?” she asks in a soft voice, under her breath despite the noise of the dining hall. Nobody but Nate is going to hear her anyway, but she does it regardless.

“The Wardens will always be your home,” he says with stark honesty. “Yours, and his.”

\--

That night, she cradles Alistair to her chest, brushing her fingers through his sandy hair. “I’m ready to go home.”

His voice is a murmur, breath ghosting over her breast. “Oh, good. I don’t think I can survive another drinking contest.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, at this point, I have no idea how many more chapters until it ends. Which just means more for you guys!

**i.**

Elissa sits in a brightly lit room, the sun pouring in through the glass and shattering on the floor like diamonds. Or perhaps the floor _is_ diamonds, and she narrows her eyes to stare at it. It is quite sparkly, and as fond as she is of jewels, this is a little much. Then again, it _is_ Orlais.

Everything in Orlais is a little much.

She’s been in her neighboring country for a fortnight, but she already misses the briskness of Ferelden, the damp weather and drab colors and loud people. Maker, she swears that the whispers here are even more annoying than back home. Elissa is no stranger to rumors and hurtful gossip, of course. More than one noble has been heard saying that she is a witch in disguise, that she has beguiled the king, that no warrior blood should be able to call on the Fade.

They call her a thief and a liar and a harlot. 

But in Orlais, she hears them speak of her red hair like it’s a fashion disaster and the way she smells of horse and dog.

They talk of how she has yet to produce an heir for the Ferelden throne, and wasn’t Cailan in talks with Celene herself to annul his marriage with Anora to marry her instead. Surely, King Alistair will see that she is dried up, that she is not fit to be queen.

They call her the runaway queen, despite the fact that she has been by her husband’s side for the last two years.

It’s depressing, to say the least, to have so much mud slung at you. 

She misses home. She misses Alistair and her dog. She misses her Wardens so close at hand. 

She misses pants.

Her legs feel bare under the hoops of the skirts the maids shoved her into. Her flaming mass of unfashionable shame is curled and pinned. Her waist is cinched - she’s had armor that was more comfortable. It feels like her wedding all over again. She is too dressed up, when a simple gown would have sufficed. But this is tea with the Empress.

This is negotiation talks, and Elissa is in the Empress’s court.

The fabric of her deep green skirts rustle together as she walks around the room, heels clicking against the suspiciously jeweled floor. Her ankles wobble once, twice. The arch of her foot aches. 

She would kill to go back and let her mother give her better lessons in looking like a lady, Elissa realizes. She would kill just to have her mother back, too, but that is an old wound. For now, she just settles on deep admirability of the women who do this constantly.

“Lady Elissa, forgive me for making you wait,” Celene announces as she sweeps into the room, attendants flocking in behind her. 

“Not at all,” Elissa responds with a cordial voice, inclining her head. She’s sure that Leliana would have told her to bow or curtsy, at the very least. She’s also sure Leliana would tell her that she would be a terrible player at the Game. 

From the dark look that passes over the empress’s beautiful face, it’s obvious she has made a mistake.

And that causes the barest flicker of a smile to take over Elissa’s mouth. She will prevent another war at all costs, of course, but she doesn’t want to play as a pretty doll or playmate. Better her, though, than Alistair. She isn’t that unaccustomed to politics. 

“I was admiring your floors. What is the stone exactly?”

Celene’s hands flutter a bit as she comes to stand next to the Queen of Ferelden. She smells, well, _divine_ , Elissa notes. Like a warm summer day. “Oh, you have an eye for such small detail.” It’s an entire floor. “You are as great as they say. They are crushed crystal mixed with marble, actually. Apparently all the rage in Orzammar these days.” Celene’s eyes are bright, but cold, calculating. “I’ve been told you were there.”

“Quite a few times, actually,” Elissa answers. She doesn’t remember any working like this, but then, she doesn’t stick around to play pretty politician, either. “Dwarves are quite clever. I’ve always been impressed with their work.”

Celene smiles before indicating the small table set in the sunlight. “Come, sit. I was saddened to hear that your husband wouldn’t be joining us here, but I suppose he best knows how to run Ferelden.”

Elissa blinks, giving a tight smile. A servant holds out her chair for her, and she takes a seat. She tries to remember Leliana’s lessons, but they all seem to be disappearing in this moment. “Yes, we cannot all be so great at rebuilding a country from the brink of collapse. I’m better suited at meeting with potential allies.”

“Is that your end goal, then?”

“And why shouldn’t it be?” Elissa waits until Celene takes a seat as well, waits until the servant pours them both a cup of tea. She inhales and wonders if she shouldn’t have taken Zevran up on those poison lessons. Would the Empress kill her? Would she dare risk such a thing?

But of course she would. Alistair would be devastated, and Ferelden is still so fragile. Orlais could march in and destroy everything that Maric had worked for. 

She waits until Celene has taken a sip before she does, and the blonde woman’s smile of triumph does not go unnoticed. This is exactly what she wants, to put the Queen of Ferelden on edge.

Fighting darkspawn is less riskier than playing the Game.

“Indeed, I see no reason why there shouldn’t be such an alliance. I had been in negotiations with Cailan, after all. His brother must be more capable in some way.” There’s a sly look on her face, in her beautiful eyes. She’s a fox, Elissa reminds herself. She is a woman who gladly would have taken everything Ferelden has to offer.

“I’d prefer an alliance as opposed to a coupling, personally,” Elissa laughs lightly. Alistair is not weak in the same way that the former king had been, she tells herself. For all of their problems, their love is real and binding and too intimately tied to being unknotting. 

She is not Anora, and he is not Cailan, and she will die before letting Celene have Ferelden.

The empress sits back, eyes wide. “Why, of course. I would never suggest such a thing. Really, the only reasons that Cailan and I were having such… a discussion was the matter of an heir. The Ferelden throne needed one, and I must admit, I would rather see Orlais pass into the hands of one of mine rather than my cousins.”

She says it like they’re friends, like this is a whispered secret. Elissa isn’t stupid enough to think that’s what it is. It’s a low blow, about her lack of heirs with Alistair. 

\--

“Ah, but you survived the encounter,” Leliana points out later that week when they meet up. “That is the most important thing.”

“Is it really? Because I don’t feel like I survived,” Elissa moans. 

“You are alive. And I have not heard _too_ many terrible things about you, my friend.”

Elissa groans even louder.

**ii.**

Eamon dies while Elissa is gone. Alistair sits on the edge of the bed, Barkspawn’s head resting on his knee in comfort. He’s getting old, too, the king notices, seeing the flecks of white in the dog’s muzzle. 

For now, though, he tries to not focus on that. Really, he doesn’t even want to focus on the fact that a man who had been like a father to him was dead. Not now, not yet. There had been a time during the Blight where he had thought he would lose Eamon then, but these past few years have allowed the two of them to develop a closer relationship. Such a funny thing to think about, considering that he is the son of a man who cheated on Eamon’s dear sister.

With his free hand, he scrubs it over the stubble on his jaw. The other hand is quick at work at scratching behind the Mabari’s ears.

He misses Elissa. He wishes she were here to help him out, to provide that kind of comfort that doesn’t exist for him anywhere else. But at least this time he knows she’ll come back. Hopefully. The things he has heard about Empress Celene does give him a doubt or two.

“Well, boy, I suppose we better get ready for our journey back to Redcliffe.”

The dog’s rump shakes with the force of his nub tail wagging. 

\--

Alistair stands next to Connor, who has been allowed to leave the circle for the funeral procession. He rests a hand on the boy’s shoulder awkwardly; awkward because the lad is so tall now, when did that happen? Awkward because he is a bastard turned king, and he remembers this little brat back when he was possessed by a demon.

See? Awkward.

Connor doesn’t seem to mind so much, though, taking to leaning in closer to Alistair. Wanting comfort, but not exactly going out of his way to seek it. If he had been anything other than a mage, he would be an arl now. Next to Connor, Isolde stands stoic, her face red, her eyes puffy from the unshed tears. She holds her son’s hand tightly enough that Alistair can see them growing purple. 

Teagan speaks in a soft voice about the accomplishments of his brother before singing scripture.

Alistair doesn’t sing, but he hums. Off-key. Connor shoots him a smile.

\--

“How does it feel to be Arl?” Alistair laughs into his whiskey.

“Strange.” Teagan is slumped into his brother’s desk chair, looking ruffled, sad, drunk. “I miss him, Alistair. He was too young. They’re always too young.”

He thinks of Duncan. He thinks of the father he never knew as one. He thinks of Loghain and Bryce Cousland.

Cailan had been too young. He might have been out there, fighting by Elissa’s side instead of ruling.

“I will have to marry now,” Teagan mutters. “Have a child.”

“Or adopt,” Alistair points out. “Nothing wrong with that, I think. Titles are passed so easily, you know. I deal with this one man who has named his heir the blacksmith’s son. _The blacksmith’s son._ Needless to say, his daughter was not pleased.” He’s quiet a moment after draining his glass. “A bastard became a king.”

“I am ready for this,” Teagan whispers. 

Alistair nods, the whiskey clogging up his head. As they often do, his thoughts drift to Elissa. She’s the one who usually tells him that. That he’s _ready_. And here Teagan is, telling himself that. Then again, only one of them in this room was raised to be a noble of some sort. And with confidence. And was never called a bastard, he’s sure. Teagan is too likeable for that.

“What of Isolde?” Not that Alistair cares about that old harpy, but, well… She did just lose a husband.

“Should I let her stay here? That is probably for the best.”

Alistair leans his head back, staring up at the ceiling. The way Teagan says it, it’s as though he’s only pretending to have thought of this. What has he been doing behind his brother’s back, anyhow? Ah, it makes so much sense.

“You’re a dirty man,” he says thickly.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! Nothing at all.”

**iii.**

“What have you there?” Alistair asks, snatching the letter from out of Elissa’s hands. Her cheeks puff out, which is more adorable than he can put words to. Momentarily, his curiosity is forgotten as he leans over her shoulder and presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth. And then another on that mouth of hers before she opens it and ruins the moment.

The paper crumples in his hand when her fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, keeping him bent low as she kisses him back. 

“Official Warden business,” she murmurs into his mouth. Having properly distracted him - his fault, really, she’s a wicked woman with wicked ways - she snatches her letter back.

“Am I not an official Warden?”

“You’re more like a Warden sidekick,” she tells him. Smoothing out the letter, she holds it out so that the both of them can read it together. 

He reads the words over a few times before pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. “What do you intend to do?”

“Nothing,” she whispers, folding the letter into a small square until it can no longer be bent. Elissa stares straight ahead, sighing softly. “Anders made his choice when he - He made his choice. I am not his jailor. I am not an executioner, either.”

The thing is, she is. But he feels this might be an inappropriate moment to point that out to her. This was her friend, and she cares. Alistair wraps his arms around her.

“Kirkwall, though. I’ve heard a few things from out of there,” Alistair murmurs. “Let’s hope he stays safe then.”

She’s quiet for longer than he likes. He knows she’s thinking about _something_. That is never a good thing, in his experience. Unless it’s good for him. 

“Fight me,” she murmurs, glancing up at him with those brandywine eyes of hers. 

“What?”

“How long has it been since you’ve really trained? You’re starting to get round along the edges, and my arms have felt like wet noodles for months,” Elissa explains.

He smiles and doesn’t say what he thinks, a large chore for him. But she doesn’t want to hear that whatever her problems are, she’s running from them.

“Are you calling me fat?”

“I said round.”

**iv.**

Another year drifts by like it’s nothing, and Elissa feels restless in this life of complacency. Fergus remarries in that time, a nice woman who has nothing of the flair of Oriana. It’s an old wound that she thought she had buried, but she has nightmares of Oren’s screams the night she gets the letter about Katherine’s pregnancy. 

They are excited, he writes. He wants her to come home and be with him and Katherine, he says. He wants to name the child Bryce, if he’s a boy, or Eleanor, if it’s a girl.

She screams around the knuckles of her fist as she bites down on her own skin hard enough to watch a stream of red run down her arm. 

It jerks Alistair awake, bleary eyed and fumbling as he jerks her hand away from her mouth and wraps a sheet around the wounds. Shallow, her husband says. But there’s a wariness in his tone that has nothing to do with sleep. 

“You don’t have to go,” he whispers to her, kissing the broken skin gently after it has stopped bleeding. “Nobody is making you go.”

“I know,” she says. She also knows that she would be a poor sister if she didn’t. She knows that it has been years since Oriane and Oren and her parents have died, and that she is happy for Fergus. He deserves happiness and to not be trapped with ghosts. 

She also knows that her hesitancy is not because he is having a child but because she can’t. She hasn’t. 

She never will.

It’s not something that Elissa has ever worried about, not when she was younger and gently rolling her eyes at the idea of a gaggle of baby Couslands scampering around her feet. However, the constant whispers about their lack of heir, the idea that she _can’t_ with Alistair, it is a lot to deal with.

She gives him a tight smile before straddling his lap, kissing him tenderly. There’s a sigh on his lips, because she can’t hide her problems with him even though she can hide the reasons why. She swallows the sigh whole as her fingers rake down his naked chest. His hands come to grip her hips, and she waits for him to decide to go with her or to push her off.

His hips roll up to meet hers, and she loses herself in him.

\--

The Queen of Ferelden is there for the birth of Eleanor Cousland, the heir to Highever.

**v.**

Elissa leans against a wall, listening to two maids have a whispered conversation, her arms crossed over her chest. 

“Ooh, I could give the king the children he needs,” one giggles.

“Hush, Marie,” the other warns.

“Come on and tell me you have not thought it yourself, Lucille. He’s a little pudgy, but a king’s bastard gets far, eh?”

“You better be lucky nobody can hear your mouth,” Lucille sighs.

Elissa purses her lips. As if children were the be all, end all. As if her relationship is null and void because they have no children.

She needs out of Denerim. She needs out of Court. 

“They’re gonna hafta have an heir somehow.”

**vi.**

“I’m not having this discussion with you,” Alistair growls, running a hand through his hair. 

Elissa notices that he _is_ getting pudgier, all these years of inaction and far too much cheese getting to him. “It’s just something to think about.”

He’s quiet, deadly quiet. His fists are clenched at his side as he stops pacing. They’re in his office, a desk separating them. So much separating them. She regrets bringing this up at all, because this isn’t what she meant to do. She didn’t mean to make that gap wider.

“It’s nothing to think about, Elissa! Was it not enough to have me sleep with Morrigan to keep _you_ alive?”

“It saved your life, too!”

He shakes his head violently. “You are delusional if you think that you would have ever let me near enough to the Archdemon so that I was the one that slew it. It would have been you.”

Her lips part, but she can’t even protest that, not without sounding weak. He’s right, of course. Elissa would have never let Alistair die in her place. She still wouldn’t. She would do anything to keep him alive. She takes a step forward, around the desk, her hands out in front of her in a placating manner. 

“I’m sorry. I have told you that a million times, and you forgave me. _You forgave me_.”

“I couldn’t forgive you if you kept trying to push me on some maid so that I can ruin another child’s life!”

When he puts it that way, she sounds heartless. Desperate. Awful. 

“It could be--”

“If you even dare suggest that you would sleep with another man, you should leave now.” Alistair’s voice is deep, loud, and utterly terrifying. She has never, in the past five years, heard him this angry before.

“No, I - I just meant--”

He takes a step closer to her, cupping her face tightly in his hands. “I don’t want a child, Elissa, not unless it was _ours_. Do you think I don’t hear about how we have no heirs? Do you think I have not had offers to divorce you and marry someone else?”

His image wavers in her eyes as they fill with tears. No, she is not going to cry. Of course he has. “I made you king and didn’t even think of the consequences.”

“There are no consequences unless you decide there are!” With a noise of disgust, he lets her go and stalks away from her. “What I want is a life with you, Elissa. I don’t care about what other people think of our relationship.”

“Then do you care about Ferelden? After all the years, do you not care about what will happen when our Calling comes?” Elissa gives a hollow laugh. “I won’t watch us fall into civil war because you _refuse_ to even think about alternatives to an heir.”

Alistair’s face grows as red as her own hair, and his voice is shaky as he talks. “Elissa… Maybe you should go. We’re not going to settle this tonight, and I - I can’t think when I look at you. Because I know you’re wrong. I know you’re upset. But I also know that you have a way to twist me.”

She flinches. Actually _flinches_ at his words. “Alistair, don’t. I wouldn’t.” She steps forward, and he steps away. Her chest feels like it’s being ripped open. 

“You have.”

Elissa presses her lips together and nods. “I’m sorry. I’ve just had a lot on my mind.”

“You’ve been cooped up here for too long.” He hesitates, and she sees it in the stiff way he holds his body as he forces himself to walk the short distance to her. His hands are heavy on her shoulders. 

She still doesn’t cry, a draining activity to keep the tears locked up. “I don’t want our sacrifices to be in vain, Alistair.”

His lips press to her forehead. “I love you, Elissa, but I don’t agree.”

“I don’t think I agree with me, either.”

“Well, there you go.” He rests his forehead against hers. “I want children,” he whispers, “but only with you. And if that never happens, then I don’t care. You’re all I’ve ever needed.”

“That might be unhealthy still.”

“Sometimes, I don’t believe it was ever healthy to begin with.”

She closes her eyes and breathes him in. “I think it’s time I go back to resume my duties at Vigil’s Keep.”

He kisses her briefly. “I love you. I love you.”

“You’re a patient man.”

“Yes, well, I did happen to marry you. It would make anyone patient.”

Elissa leaves in the morning.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two chapters left, now! I am 90% sure of this. You guys are the best.

**i.**

There is a swell of new faces in Vigil’s Keep when Elissa finally makes her way inside (she spends an hour talking to Wade before she can even make it inside, and another hour getting an earful from her seneschal). It’s worth it, to see their faces. There had been a time when it was just her and Alistair, the only two Wardens left in Ferelden.

Even her thoughts stutter over him. It’s not a split. It’s a needed separation. She has other duties besides being queen and wife, and the time away will do them good.

She already misses him terribly.

But seeing new Wardens, their ranks swelling? That’s something she didn’t imagine she’d see. They’re not what they once were, from what she’s learned. They’re not the army that was lost at Ostagar, but she’s proud to see what they are anyway.

“A bunch of ruffians, aren’t they?” 

Elissa turns, eyebrows raised. The girl who spoke steps up beside her, a slight frown tugging at her lips and a bitter look in her eyes. But she picks up the faint traces of fondness, too. She isn’t a willing recruit, but she’s also found a new family. In a second, Elissa already knows that she’s going to like this girl.

They have a lot in common already.

When she turns to face her bunch of ruffians, she can’t help but smile. Her stress doesn’t disappear, but she feels more comfortable than she has in a long time around these people. _Her_ people. 

“And they’ll make a fine bunch of heroes with the right sort of guidance,” Elissa comments with a nod. 

The girl narrows her dark eyes at Elissa, as if she’s trying to figure out who she could possibly be. “Are you new here?”

“Oh, Maker no,” Elissa laughs. She thrusts her hand out with a grin. “Elissa Cousland, Warden-Commander of this little hovel.”

“You’re the queen. Warden-Commander?” The girl’s hands flutter, and she looks like she might explode with embarrassment, her face grows so red. It only makes Elissa grin that much more. “Forgive me, I - Nobody had warned that you were coming. There should be announcements, shouldn’t there be? Preparations? I am not sure how the Fereldens do it--”

“You sound Ferelden,” Elissa points.

“Yes, but I was recruited - That is to say, I was given to the Wardens somewhere near Kirkwall, so I am more of a Free Marcher now.” A beat. “I still recognize you as my queen, though.”

Elissa snorts. “And who are you, Free Marcher?”

Finally, the girl takes her hand, which is a blessing. It was getting pretty tired hanging in the air like that. “I’m Bethany Hawke.”

“What brings you to Vigil’s Keep?”

“I go where I’m told. There’s a small party of us here for a week or two before we head out again.” Bethany presses her lips together. 

“What is it?”

“You’re not what I was expecting when you hear talk of the Hero of Ferelden,” she finally says and looks far too ashamed for having said it.

Elissa loops her arm through Bethany’s, tugging her along with her through the hall. “Don’t worry. I’m sure I’ll kill a few more of your expectations by the end of the night. Now how about a drink? I’ve had a tiring journey.”

\--

It turns out that Bethany’s company includes Nathaniel. And it turns out that Nathianiel has just the thing to keep Elissa’s mind off of her husband. Which is perhaps one of the things she shouldn’t have been excited for.

Nate doesn’t ask questions, though. He doesn’t needle her for why she’s back when she had been more than content to leave. She tells him anyway because it’s not like he has anyone to tell. He looks distinctly uncomfortable throughout the whole exchange, but he offers to let her use his bow as his way of comforting.

It goes quite badly, but she does feel better about everything when it’s all said and done.

And then they go back underground, the one place she doesn’t want to be and knows she has to go. 

**ii.**

“You love the woman.”

“The whole world should know that I do,” Alistair points out as he passes a few of his papers to Teagan. “It’s not as though I’ve been keeping it a secret.”

The older man tries to frown, but there’s too much of a smile on his face to even properly be called a hint. “It’s hard not to. She’s a spitfire, that one. But you sent her away.”

Alistair whips his head around so fast, the world spins for a second. “I didn’t send her away.”

“She’s not here.”

“You like her more than me, don’t you?” He narrows his eyes as Teagan grins. “You’re becoming a dirty old man.”

“She is quite beautiful and charming.”

“Are we talking about the same woman? My _wife?_ ” But she is. Beautiful, incredibly beautiful. Even with those bags under her eyes and each new scar that mars her skin. Alistair wonders if she misses him as much as he misses her. There’s nobody to hold him at night when the nightmares resurface. More importantly, there’s nobody to hold _her._

But she is gone, back into the Deep Roads to search for something she was too afraid to write down on paper.

“Yes, your wife,” Teagan teases, coming around and patting Alistair on his protruding gut. “Unlike some people I know, she seems to be taking care of herself.”

“You’re calling me fat.”

“Something like that.”

Alistair grins and watches him carefully. This old man is far too happy to make much sense. He pauses, rubs his hand over his mouth as Teagan settles back into a chair to look through the papers. “Who is she?”

“What.”

“You’re _happy_. And not like, why yes I have everything under control. No, no. This is the kind of happy where I know a woman’s involved. Or a man! Is it a he? You know, I have a friend who also doesn’t quite care about if you’re a male or female. I doubt he’d make you happy. Probably drive you mad, actually,” Alistair begins to ramble.

Teagan leans forward, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re usually so unobservant.”

The king perches himself on the edge of his desk. “Actually, no. I just like to _pretend_ I am. Do you know how tiring it is to be the leader of an entire country? One, where I will remind you, that I have to put together again.”

“One that you will never actually stop reminding me,” Teagan laughs. “It was my brother and Elissa who put you here. Stop accusing me like I’m at fault for your misadventures, Alistair.”

“Well, I can’t very well blame my wife. She’s a little terrifying, if you hadn’t noticed.”

Maker, he misses her. He wants to mount an expedition right this moment and storm the caves beneath the earth so that he can carry her home. Or at least fight by her side. He should be with her, not that hook-nosed Nathaniel Howe.

“You’re pouting.”

“Am not.” Alistair waves him off. “And you’re changing the subject. Who is it?”

Teagan thins his lips out before sighing with exasperation. “You will not let it go, will you?”

“Not on your life.”

“Isolde.”

And that is the story of how Alistair ended up breaking a three hundred year old vase as he flailed uselessly at information he had already known would happen.

**iii.**

It’s the drip of water that wakes Elissa up, a quick jerk of her body as her hand immediately goes for the sword resting next to her. It takes her a moment to realize there’s no threat. There’s just darkness and rocks and the snoring company of her fellow Wardens. She hunches over, running her fingers through her dirty hair with a sigh. Another nightmare. They’re worse, down here. 

Shadowed whispers that crawl through her veins and hiss in her thoughts. She wonders if that’s what they hear, too, if Bethany feels the call of the darkspawn when she sleeps or if Elissa is special simply because she killed the last archdemon.

She bites her lip.

Her hands are tainted with an old god’s blood, but not his soul. No, her soul is fine. She is alive. Tainted, sure, but alive.

In the Deep Roads, though, she feels the call of something dangerous. Like she could walk away and find peace in the darkness.

A heavy hand rests on her knee. “Are you alright?”

She cups her hand around Nate’s, squeezing his fingers lightly. “Dreaming.”

“Nothing pleasant, I imagine.” His voice is barely a whisper, the same sound the water makes when it hits stone. 

After a moment, she stretches back out on her sleeping mat. She rests on her side, facing him. “I don’t like the dark,” she whispers back.

“Big Hero of Ferelden, Queen, Dragon Slayer, Arl of Amaranthine, Warden-Commander--”

“Wouldn’t it be Arless?”

“The point is, all that weight on your shoulders, and it is the dark that you don’t like.”

“Oh, amongst other things, I’m afraid.”

He snorts, rolling over onto his back. “Regretting leaving Alistair now?”

“Always. But I don’t regret this. I love this.”

He’s quiet a moment, and she thinks he might have fallen back to sleep except for the fact that he isn’t giving that slight whistle of a snore that’s his signature move. “You can’t have both, Elissa. Grey Wardens--”

“I know this, but haven’t you already noticed how many rules have been broken? How much is changing around us? I was a foolish girl.”

“You’re not that old yet, Elissa. You’re still that foolish girl. Now you just have the fate of a nation and the fate of us in your hands.” Nate looks at her, and she can just barely make out his face in the darkness. “What that group found out of Kirkwall, Bethany’s sister and the Tethras expedition. It’s changed things for us. Kirkwall is what we should be watching, and we both know it.”

He’s right. But she’s always held that fate, as if the Maker has charged her with some grand destiny, and for what purpose? Why her, of all the people in Thedas? What has she done to make herself so worthy?

She buries her face in her arms. “Go back to Kirkwall. See what you can find about this red lyrium. See if you can’t… uncover our old friend and what he has to say about it.”

“You know I despise him. And beside, nobody knows where he could be.”

“That’s why I need you to go.” She reaches out and touches his arm. “I can’t be both, remember? I need for you to do it while I remain in Ferelden.”

“So you are going home?”

“Yes.”

**iv.**

She arrives in Denerim under the cover of night, as she always does, nine months after she first left. This time, though, she sent a letter home ahead of time. Alistair is waiting for her when she walks onto the grounds, sweeping her off her feet.

“Alistair--”

“I’m sorry,” he says first, keeping her feet from barely scraping the dirt as he buries his face into the crook of her neck. 

She squeezes her eyes shut. “So am I. I won’t bring it up again.”

Finally, her husband sets her down on her feet again, smoothing her hair from her face as he cups it. The look he gives her is one of nothing but love, and she’s so glad to not see frustration in his gaze. “You silly woman. I am not against the idea of us being parents.”

“Just against the idea of seeking an outside source for it.”

“You matter the most to me, Elissa.” His mouth is soft and inviting when he kisses her. She finds herself leaning against him in no time, hands on his waist, fingers under the hem of his shirt. “Nothing else.”

“Good,” she declares. “It would be a shame to not have my feelings returned exactly.”

\--

Their reunion is short lived, but at least this time it’s not her that’s going away. 

“When you get home, I am going to absolutely ravage you, I hope you know that.”

His face goes red, which delights her still. “Why wait?”

Elissa grins, finishing the last button. “Because you have a ship to catch, if I recall correctly. Not that I like it. Kirkwall isn’t safe.”

He takes her hands in his and kisses her knuckles. “You forget that I’m a warrior, don’t you?”

“Who hasn’t had reason to pick up his sword in some time. Do me a favor and train while you’re on your journey.”

“You worry too much.”

She gives him a small smile. “I worry just enough when it comes to you.”

Elissa watches him ride away with his entourage, a growing feeling of anxiety in her gut. Not for his safety, but for her own. This is the first time, she realizes, that she is the one on the throne, watching for Ferelden. He may play the dunce, but her husband is a far better politician than she could have ever hoped to be.

**v.**

She’s not exactly a horrible queen, but she does manage to set an arless’s dress on fire during a tea party.

**vi.**

Elissa has always hated tea parties.

**vii.**

The Champion of Kirkwall is not exactly what Alistair has expected when she escorts him into the shadiest bar he’s _ever_ seen - and he’s been in the Pearl. She’s rough, crude, sassy. That’s right. _Sassy_. She’s likely what Elissa might have been had she been a commoner herself. 

It’s enough to give him a headache, of course.

“So, what is the King of Ferelden doing here in Kirkwall?” Hawke asks him, slamming down a dirty mug in front of him.

Perhaps being king _has_ made him soft, because he suddenly wishes for a clean glass and cleaner booze. Once, he wouldn’t have cared so much. He’s never had rich tastes. Actually, he’s pretty sure that if Elissa were here, she’d be drinking it down as heartily as this Hawke.

So he does, all in one swoop.

The woman next to him grins and pats him on the back when he begins to choke. “I should have warned you to take it easy maybe? I’ve killed a lot of things, but I don’t know if I want to add ‘king’ to the list.”

“I think it would take a little more than terrible alcohol to kill me. It’s the Grey Warden thing. Makes us hardy against little things.”

“Or it makes you more vulnerable with that sort of attitude. Next thing you know, you’re tripping onto a sword.” Hawke rubs her stomach, as if she’s talking from experience. 

He _has_ heard rumors about her fight with the Arishok, and now he squints at her as if he’s going to see through her clothes. His face flushes at the thought. No, no, he doesn’t mean like that. 

“So, why are you here?”

“Oh, you know, traveling. That sort of thing. Checking up on how Kirkwall is going. Three years is quite some time without a leader. It makes everyone a little antsy.”

“It’s not Warden stuff?”

“Maker, no, Elissa takes care of all that.”

But she’s looking at him like she knows he knows something. He tries to wrack his brain, but can’t quite come up with anything. Not that he’s likely to tell her anyhow. Warden business is exactly that. What Kirkwall has to offer for him at the moment is strictly political and the threat it will pose to Ferelden.

Hawke is quiet, making quick work of her drink and ordering another round for the both of them. Her smile is harder than Elissa’s but there’s the same kind of sadness that lingers in the corners. He knows that kind of pain. He’s felt it. More importantly, he has seen it on his wife’s face since the first moment they met. The Champion is not what he expects because the Champion is as much of a myth as the Hero of Ferelden is. Here before him is the real story, the face of the legend.

“I hear your sister is a Warden. Is that why you’re worried?”

Hawke stills for a second, and she gives herself away with the slight jerk of her body, the forced laugh, the widening of those electric eyes. Alistair isn’t the most observant, he’ll admit it, but being king and dealing with the court, well… It makes just about anyone take notice of the small things.

“You Wardens give us a lot to worry about, what with your impending death sentences.”

Alistair laughs. “Elissa met her, I believe. Said she was a good mage. You should be proud of the kind of service your sister is doing for Thedas.”

“I am,” Hawke answers softly. “I just wish things could have gone differently.”

“Don’t we all.”

**viii.**

Elissa threads her fingers through Alistair’s as they lay side by side on the bed. “Kirkwall is a threat.”

“No doubt about it, but a smaller one.”

“Smaller than what, exactly? Templars running the show, blood magic running rampant through the streets, red lyrium.”

“The red lyrium isn’t a problem if even the Wardens can’t find it now. We should leave it be, it’s none of our concern.”

Elissa bites her lip. “I have a bad feeling, Alistair. When I was in the Deep Roads…” She sighs, her breath brushing against his cheek. “It felt like I could hear something in there.”

Concern twists his face. “You’re too young to hear the Calling.”

“There is no age limit on it, Alistair. But I doubt it was the Calling. There was something more to it. Things are beginning to happen. Weisshaupt has stopped answering my letters. I can’t find the Architect. I haven’t heard from Nate.”

Alistair pulls her closer, his lips pressing to her forehead. “We’ve stopped a Blight together. There’s nothing we can’t do.”

**ix.**

Anders blows up the chantry in Kirkwall, and the world falls to shit.

Kirkwall falls to shit first, and then the mages. 

“It’s my fault,” Elissa whispers to nobody in particular. She can’t shake the feeling, that if she had tried harder, if she could have saved Anders and Justice both. 

**x.**

“The mages have rebelled from Kinloch Hold, your majesties,” a templar tells them, bowed at the waist with his fist to his chest.

“Where is the Knight-Commander Greagoir?” Elissa demands from her throne.

The templar hesitates. “Well… Rebelling with them. He opened the doors for First Enchanter Irving, after all.”

Alistair laughs, and Elissa shakes her head. “That’s not surprising.”

What is surprising is the way the mages and templars turn on each other so violently.

**xi.**

And in the midst of a growing epidemic, Alistair comes to Elissa with a letter in hand and a haunted look on his face.

“I have to leave.”

“Alistair?” She reaches for the papers but he dances out of her reach. Curse her for getting him back into shape again, fighting fit and trim.

“My father--” Her husband makes a choking noise, as if he’s unsure what to say now.

Her shoulders slump. She has run off countless times and left him here to figure out his own way. This is important to him. When she steps up to him this time, he doesn’t jerk away, and she smooths her hand over his hair, his face, down his arm until she can take the letter from him and read for herself.

In the end, she kisses him.

“Go.”

**xii.**

He does.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, guys!!

**i.**

Elissa doesn’t remain still while Alistair is gone. She runs a country, yes, but she also stumbles on something curious. The world is falling apart around her, but that just brings to light a certain woman who she had only vaguely heard of before. An elf named Fiona, the leader of the freed mages.

It doesn’t take her long to discover that once, this woman had been a Warden too.

Had been, as in no longer is. Had been, as in no longer tainted.

When the Hero of Ferelden reads these words of this woman’s own personal account, she sucks in a breath so sharply that she hurts her throat. Air has cut her in her surprise. 

It’s not possible, Elissa tells herself. It’s not possible to rid yourself of the taint once it has infected your blood, not possible to cut off the Calling.

And yet, there is living proof.

Alistair is away, the world is falling apart around her, and Elissa begins her research into a topic she never thought could be possible. The more she finds, the more a gnawing in her gut begins to grow. She has long battled with the idea of fate, but this feels right.

It feels like she was supposed to discover this when very few people have never thought about it before.

She leans back in her chair, brushing a hand over her aging dog’s head, feeling his warmth push back into her palm. What would a life be like with Alistair knowing they have no Calling to answer to? That one of them won’t be left alone without the other in the end? If she has hers first, and leaves him indefinitely. If he goes without her--

No, that would never happen. She is too young to be thinking about death, but it’s all that permeates her very marrow. It’s all she dreams about. If Alistair had his Calling before her, she would go with him to die, even if it isn’t her time.

There is no life without him.

“What do you think, Barkspawn?” she asks the dog in a soft voice, as if afraid the very walls could hear her words and deem her insane. “Is it worth the chance to discover a cure?”

Barkspawn cocks his head, looking up at her with an intelligence that has only grown wiser in his old age. Her dog doesn’t find her crazy, and the thought brings a wry smile to her lips. Other people would think so based on that alone, but other people do not understand a Ferelden and her dog. 

\--

It kills her to not tell him when he returns, but she waits with increasing impatience. Days, weeks, a couple of months. He is home, and he is everything, but she could be doing more.

He doesn’t talk much about what happened when he left, and so that helps her to remain calm. She can see that he’s changed, that there’s a darkness in his gaze that reminds her more of herself than of him. She strokes the side of his face, coaxing him until he buries himself into the crook of her neck and holds her tight.

“The world is changing,” she murmurs into his ear finally. 

“I know,” he breathes against her skin. 

“I missed you.”

He rolls them over so that he can pull her closer to him, holding tightly. “We’re together.”

**ii.**

“I can’t say I know much of married life, Cousland, but I do know that just disappearing on your husband could in fact be worse than telling him,” Nate scolds her one afternoon.

Imagine his surprise when he drops by to see his commander about their upcoming journey only to find out that Alistair is none the wiser. He stares down his long nose at Elissa, giving her a very convincing glare.

She pretends that it doesn’t bother her, forcing her body still so that she doesn’t squirm beneath the look. He is fairly good at it.

“He just…” Elissa huffs, staring at her hands. “He just keeps saying things like how we’re together now, and we’ve had such a rocky marriage in the beginning. Things are becoming _normal_.”

Nate looks pained, and she isn’t sure how much more she can explain without going into every little detail about her life. Which, with Nate, she would do, but everything has its own limitations. 

“Normal is that you are a Warden,” he points out.

“As is Alistair.”

He takes a deep breath. “I know you carry around this guilt, that you are responsible for making him a king, but he made his own decision, too.” Her friend places his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “He isn’t a Warden.”

They are the most honest words she has heard in a long time. Trust a Howe to know how to cut her to the quick.

She rests a hand over his before sighing. “Don’t you want to take the blame for this?”

That glare is quick to return.

**iii.**

Elissa is pretty sure she has never seen a frown as deep as Alistair’s grows when she explains the things she has discovered.

“You have been planning this expedition behind my back?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Elissa says quickly.

He blinks and stares at the door as if Nate is going to burst in like an ogre. “Really?”

“Okay, well - I have been meaning to--”

“You didn’t,” her husband hammers in.

She presses her lips together, shame crawling under her skin like a parasite. She had had plenty of opportunity. There was no excuse, of course, she just didn’t know how to leave him again.

Not when she had just got him back.

Not when he hadn’t seemed himself.

She starts when his fingers slide over her cheek, cupping her face gently. “Elissa. We are not children anymore,” he begins to whisper. “We have been married nearly ten years now. We have dealt with absence before.”

“I am tired of dealing with absence, Alistair,” she admits. Her eyes close as she leans into his touch. “I am tired of knowing that I will be without you at some point, and I can’t live with that, either.”

She can’t live without him. How miserable and terrifying.

“Do try to tell people in public that this is for the good of the Wardens rather than telling them it’s because of how mad you are for me,” Alistair says, his lips twisting up into half a smile. It’s forced and rough beneath the shadow of his incoming beard, and her heart skips a beat all the same.

“As if people would question the Hero of Ferelden.”

\--

She’s packing when the raven lands on her window sill, the caw reverberating through her skull. Her nose wrinkles when she turns to find it actually pecking the window open, but before she can formulate the thought of “destroy the enemy” (and connecting those dots back to Shale), she notices the small bit of parchment around his leg.

“Ah.” Her trousers slump to the floor as she drops them, quickly making her way over to the bird. 

He waits patiently for her to untie the letter before pecking her hand gently. 

“Oh, you’ll get your reward when I’m good and ready,” she answers dismissively. The raven huffs.

Unrolling the parchment, she nearly loses her breath. Her knees shake, legs buckling, and she just barely catches the end of her bed. The corner of the mattress scrapes over her back as she sits heavily on the floor.

**iv.**

_I meant to write sooner, but there is much to do before the Conclave. I must confess, gathering this information had been quite difficult, all matters considered._

_Morrigan is in Celene’s court._

_The boy is with her, but rarely seen._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Leliana_

**v.**

_What am I to do with this information? Once, I sought Morrigan out and she ran, but now she’s returned? And to Orlais of all places? Do you think she’s hiding from me, Leliana? This is going to drive me mad, and I cannot do a thing about it._

_I am leaving Ferelden in Alistair’s quite capable hands and will have to force out all thoughts about his and Morrigan’s son until my return. I’m enclosing the location of where you can reach me should anything else arise, but I am going to be gone for some time, I’m afraid._

_Good luck with getting the mages and the Chantry to work together. It’s an ambitious hope, of course._

_Keep me informed of Morrigan, if you can. I don’t like that she’s with Celene at all._

_A frazzled friend,_

_Elissa_

**vi.**

Alistair drags a hand over his face, not bothering to hide the groan that escapes his lips. “There was an explosion.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the messenger says for the thousandth time in the last few minutes. 

“At the Conclave.”

“So it would seem.”

“And everyone died.”

“Not everyone.” The messenger doesn’t even bother to emphasize at this point, letting the king absorb what he can.

And Alistair does. Very slowly. 

“There are Tevinter magisters in Redcliffe, mages are fighting in the Hinterlands with rogue Templars, and you are telling me that the Divine is dead.” He can’t even find it in himself to make it a question. He understood the first time he was given the message; it’s just taken some time to sink in.

As if the world doesn’t have enough problems.

As if _Ferelden_ doesn’t have enough problems, the Divine _would_ die in his kingdom. Which is, of course, a terrible thing to think. Not that this stops his thoughts, as they continue to roll out in front of him. His wife is Maker knows where, but she is definitely gone from his reach. He can’t manage to keep war from touching his home. The Divine is dead. There is a giant hole in the sky, of which he has yet to begin to question about.

One confusing thing at a time, really.

He drags both hands over his face.

“Can you start over?”

Both the messenger and a displaced Teagan groan loudly.

**vii.**

“I had not realized that when I was _forced_ to come on such a journey--”

Elissa licks the tip of her feather pen. “Agreed.”

“I strongly disagree with the idea of being threatened as _agreement_ \--”

“But I do remember a ‘yes, Elissa, I would gladly like to accompany you into the dark abyss’.”

Velanna’s eyes narrow to slits. Dangerous, dark, murderous slits of rage. But Elissa is too tired to even feel the increase of her heart beating in her chest out of adrenaline at the look. They have walked for days, it feels like. And the sun is gone, as it always is underground. What they are on is a fool’s errand, she knows, and yet her ragtag group of Wardens still came with her.

Even her ornery elf friend.

“Try again,” the mage says with a threatening edge.

Elissa flashes her a tired smile. “I need you, Velanna.”

The elf stiffens, pressing her lips together a thin, tight line. It’s a slash across her face, as sharp as her barbs. And then the tension runs out of the lines of her body. She inhales loudly, something between a huff and a sigh. Her eyes roll. “Just don’t expect me to be happy about this. Or the way that Nathaniel is… pawing over that girl like she’s in need of his assistance.”

Elissa’s eyebrows crawl up her forehead slowly. The _girl_ in question is not so much a girl any longer, the one and only Bethany Hawke having grown into herself and the heavy family name she carries around like a badge of honor now; the novel Varric Tethras published has helped with that a lot.

Somehow, she had been talked into allowing the girl to come with them, and the Warden-Commander isn’t exactly sure how when it was meant to be only a journey with those who knew of the Architect, of her secrets.

She gives Velanna a vacant stare as her thoughts tumble over each other. They’ll have to tell Bethany soon, but what does Velanna mean about _pawing_?

She can’t even begin to imagine Nate like that. Even though she has.

Elissa rubs a hand over her mouth. “Well, I am an idiot.”

“Yes,” the elf agrees.

“Do I say something about it?”

Velanna’s lip curls up in disdain. Elissa’s eyebrows crawl even further up her forehead. They stare in silence for a moment before--

“Are you attempting to communicate with your mind, because I do believe that is not a Warden ability,” Elissa points out.

With a disgusted huff, Velanna stomps away from her. _Stomps_. How an elf stomps, she isn’t sure.

**viii.**

Alistair watches as the mages begin to file out of Redcliffe. No, filing would mean there was an order to it, as if they had any such inclination. This is more like the chaos that he walked into, but the Tevinter magisters are gone thanks to the Inquisition and the mages… also gone thanks to them.

Honestly, he has to admit that he’s more than a little disappointed by the whole thing. He really wanted to be the one storming into Redcliffe, throwing his might around.

His fingers grip the pommel of his sword tightly. The world is falling apart, and he is here playing at politics instead of fighting the demons swarming his land or punching a Templar or two in the face. At the very least. But no, instead he is threatening old ladies with big, sad eyes because they were too desperate for something that he feels like could have been solved easily enough.

His thumb rubs circles into the metal.

He misses Elissa. She should have been here to watch him banish all of the mages. She should have been the one to throw them out.

“Maker help me,” he murmurs, staring out at the mess that is his home village.

**ix.**

The hardest part for Elissa isn’t necessarily the fact that she misses Alistair with each breath she takes (something that Sigrun called absolutely ridiculous before Oghren began to cry into his cups); the hardest part is ignoring the plea for help.

Her fingers stretch the parchment of the letter from Leliana so tightly, that it begins to fray a bit. It’s as if she has to physically restrain herself. She could go, she tells herself. So easily. Too easily, in fact. Take her smelly, tired, whiny warriors back to the surface. A cure won’t matter if the world is over.

If this Inquisitor were truly as capable as Leliana makes her out to be, she assumes that they wouldn’t need help from her. She can’t possibly be the only person capable of saving the world.

But she can’t do it. 

Elissa is a hero, but she has sacrificed too much already in the name of saving. For once, she wants to do something for herself. For once, she doesn’t want to pack her friends along on another whim, on another quest with the potential to fail.

So, of course, she tells them everything that is happening above them. If they want to leave, if they want to join, they can. But she tells them the threat to the Wardens, how this Corypheus has made their friends, their allies, believe that their Calling has come. As one, they shift uncomfortably.

“I’m not about to go find out if that thing can sway me,” Oghren grunts.

Sigrun shrugs. “Death is nothing, but I’m not going to leave you if you’re staying.”

“I doubt you would give me the choice,” Velanna huffs.

Bethany pauses. “I had thought my sister and I had finished Corypheus off,” she murmurs with regret. Her fingers fold over each other, ever moving. 

Nate rests a hand over hers, but his gaze remains steady on Elissa. She expects for him to be torn. If Bethany wishes to leave, he should want to follow. Instead, the look he gives her is unwavering loyalty. Whatever Bethany wishes, he will stay.

She shouldn’t want to feel too triumphant about that, right?

“We are too close to the Architect,” Nate begins, “to give up now. Our brothers and sisters have other leaders to look after them, Elissa.”

As always, he knows how to hit her just right. 

“I’m the Hero of Ferelden.”

Oghren snorts. “You just stabbed a dragon. Big deal. We all have.”

Her lips curl into a smile. “Then the surface will have to care for its own problems for the time being.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaay, sorry for the long break between chapters, folks! hope you enjoy this one c:

**i.**

"You know that it is treason to kidnap a king." 

"You forget that I am Orlesian and you are not my king, Alistair," comes the light voice, tinted with humor. 

"Okay, well, it is still a crime, and I am still a king," said king huffs as he lets his kidnapper drag him up a mountain in the middle of the night. 

Of course, Leliana hadn't initiated the kidnapping, complete with a sack being thrown over his head. No, for that part, she had some of her other spies complete the work. But she had met them at the base of the mountain range that Skyhold was situated in. It made the process a little smoother, Alistair has to admit. 

After all, it's not every day that a king is kidnapped and goes along with it. Things are not going well in Ferelden. Or Thedas, for that matter. Being a king is rough. Being a Warden is rough. 

And here he is, kind of shirking his duties to follow behind his _very_ terrifying old friend into the heart of the Inquisition. There's a longing in his chest as they reach the fortress. He wants to be part of this, actually _part_ of this. He wants to do more for Ferelden. He wants to play the hero and help fight. He wants to give his services to this Inquisitor until Elissa returns. 

But he cannot, and he tries to stem the hope that thrums in his vein at the idea of it. 

Responsibility, he realizes as they stick to the shadows, is a drag. 

Well, it's not entirely a new realization for him, but it's a bitter moment. 

"So, we are committing an act of war for what reason, Leliana? I don't know where Elissa is." 

"Oh, that is not why I have brought you here, _your majesty_. And besides, I have already requested the help of the great Hero of Ferelden." The bard turned spymistress flashes him a smile, but it is not a happy one. Corypheus weighs down on her. But maybe also the absence of Elissa. 

And then her words register in his mind once he is done evaluating her. "Excuse me, did you just say you requested help? As in--" 

"She did not tell you how to contact her, did she?" Leliana looks shocked, and it looks genuine. 

It doesn't stop him from wanting to kick rocks like a petulant child. 

"She must have known I'd follow her if she had." 

"Would you?" 

"Of course!" 

He would rather be with her than not, and the idea that he couldn't be right now, when so much was at stake, rattles him. 

"Tsk." She turns on him them, wagging her finger like a mother scolding her errant child. "Elissa knows what she is doing, Alistair. And she knows that leaving Ferelden without its ruler would be a terrible idea. In any case, that is not why we are here." 

She puts her finger - the same one that just scolded him - to her lips before he can ask any further questions. Silence be damned, he wants to bombard her anyway. But he's _not_ a child anymore. He is a king and a leader and incredibly tired, so he does as she asks. They stay quiet as they make their way into the fortress, into hidden passageways between the stone walls that lead up to what he assumes must be her tower of evil spywork. 

A raven flaps its wings at him, ruffling up. 

Alistair sticks his tongue out. 

The bird squawks. 

Leliana glares. 

"I am sorry that I took such extreme measures to get you here," she finally tells him. 

"You don't think that perhaps a letter might have done it? An invitation to tea? Ale? I could use an ale after that. And a nice bath." 

A smile flickers over her face again, but this one looks much happier than the first. "You have grown, but you are still the same. I am glad to see it." 

"I assume that dragging me here in the middle of the night with no invitation doesn't mean you want to catch up, though, does it?" 

It can't be good, that's for sure. And Maker help him, he can't deal with anymore bad news. This is enough of a migraine to last him another ten years. 

"Morrigan is here." 

His mouth opens and shuts so rapidly, he must look like a fish gasping for breath. Is he gasping for breath? He's pretty sure all bodily functions have ceased the moment those three words, in that particular order, is said. 

Morrigan. 

Is. 

Here. 

"Well." 

Leliana waits patiently. 

"What a surprise." 

She continues to wait. 

"How fortunate for me. To be here. In the middle of the night. To see a witch. Does she know I'm here? Why am I here? You know, Leliana, I have a lot of kingly things to do. Babies to kiss, pigs to bless, chickens to redistribute, valleys to clean up of dead bodies. Demons, oh the demons." 

He doesn't move though, probably because his legs don't remember how to. 

"Your son is here." 

Yeah, he had this strange concern, in the back of his barely functioning brain, that she would say that. That - That the child, the... 

He doesn't even know what to think about that. 

His son? No. _Her_ son. A creature that holds the soul of an old god. An archdemon. Not human. Not his. 

But it is, and he can't lie and say that he has not thought about the child. He remembers, so long ago, when he fought against Elissa as she begged him to do this. For her, for them, for the world. He wouldn't create another bastard to go through what he had. He couldn't do that to a child, leave it and not care what Morrigan would do to it. 

He tried. He tried to not think of the child for so long, but Elissa's depression about not having her own, about them not having an heir, brought his bastard back to the front of his mind. 

**ii.**

"Cousland." Nate's hand is warm against the small of her back. His pale face is grim, but then, she can't actually remember a time that it wasn't. 

"We're not done here," Elissa mutters. She lets his hand stay where it's at, a small bit of human comfort that she's desperate for. They have been underground for entirely too long. She misses the sun. Clothes that don't smell a week old. Clean hair. 

She would kill for clean hair. 

"The closer we feel we are getting, the farther I feel that we actually are." 

"What are you saying?" she asks her friend in a tired voice. 

"It's a fool's errand." 

Yes. No. She isn't so sure anymore. 

"I am a fool, then." 

"The surface--" 

"I know, Nate, but we are helping. Thedas won't survive without Wardens, and if the report from this Inquisitor and Leliana is true, then we have no choice down here. Recruitment is so low, and if we are losing so many of our brothers and sisters, I have to find this cure. I have to find even a path towards it." She bites her lip to keep from screaming. "It's an incentive I can't afford to lose." 

His hand falls away, and she is sadder for it. "It's an incentive that you are after for personal reasons." 

She opens her mouth to disagree, but he's right. So a shoulder lifts in a half-hearted shrug accompanied by a half-hearted smirk. “Love does strange things to you, my friend. But I think you’re learning that well enough.”

He looks unamused, but when doesn’t he?

“So, we keep going then until we find our old… friend.”

Elissa nods as she rolls her shoulders. There’s a kink in the muscle that throbs viciously. Her clothes smell like earth, and her hair is greasy, and she has the distinct feeling of being trapped. But they must go on.

“I do not want to leave him alone up there, you know. I do not want harm to come to him and think that everything about coming down here was a waste,” she says to Nate, her voice soft. The sound carries, though. Everything carries in the rocks.

“I just have to be the negative voice of reason, you know this. I will continue marching on, and so will the others.”

Elissa gives them a choice again, later on. She tells them they are free to return to the real world with its real threats. 

None of them do.

Whether it’s because they want to be with her or because they are afraid of what might happen up top or because they want to know if there will even be a lead, she isn’t sure. She just knows that she loves each and every one of them more than her heart can take. Alistair is the love of her life, but so are her recruits, and so are her companions from the Blight.

**iii.**

“Alistair.”

“Morrigan.”

They stare at each other, him awkwardly and her with a vague sort of distaste that doesn’t even seem that genuine to him.

He has to say he’s a little disappointed. In a lot of things. In their maturity and in her handling of the boy. Her son. _His_ son. Those words keep flickering in his mind, but he can’t wrap it around them. The boy isn’t really his. Genetically, sure, but Alistair has had nothing to do with his upbringing. He can’t claim to be much of anything to him.

“Kieran,” Morrigan says, and the boy looks up in rapt attention. “This is the King of Ferelden.”

The boy’s eyes widen, and there’s a look of pure wonder and curiosity in the look. It reminds him of himself, when he was a boy. When he saw Marric. 

“Hello, Kieran,” Alistair greets. He holds out his hand to the boy. The boy looks at his mother first, for confirmation, to make sure that this is okay. Alistair’s fingers shakes uncertainly. Will he feel it? Will he feel the soul inside of the boy? Will it be like detecting darkspawn? Will he dream again?

Morrigan nods, and Kieran puts his hand in the king’s. It’s warm and dry. Small. Soft. This is his son’s hand. _His son_. For a man who doesn’t know how to hold his tongue, the words dry up in Alistair’s mouth. This is never what he wanted, something he had to put behind him to marry his wife and move on, but here he is. Shaking hands with his son. 

The boy feels like exactly that. A boy. Alistair doesn't really know what he's expecting beyond that. 

"Mother says you're married to the Hero of Ferelden," Kieran says to him after he finally takes his small hand out of Alistair's. Can't blame him, Alistair is likely freaking him out. 

"That I am." 

There's a pang in his chest that always belongs to Elissa. 

Morrigan gazes at him with curiosity, a spider concerned with the fly in her web. "Did she send you?" 

"Ah, that would be our mutual scary friend in the tower upstairs." 

Her lip curls in distaste as she flickers that piercing gaze to the tower in question, and he has no doubts that Leliana sees it. 

"I must admit that I am surprised that she is not here." 

There's a longing in Morrigan's voice. It makes him uncomfortable, that other people would miss her as much as he does. That other people would want to bask in her presence, that they are saddened she isn't around. Whatever Elissa it is, it's powerful. 

"I'm sure she would be." 

He doesn't tell Morrigan that he knows about her offer to his wife all those years ago, but somehow, he doesn't believe that he has to tell the witch. She knows. 

Kieran's nose wrinkles in the exact same way that Alistair's does when he's confused, his calm gaze moving between himself and the boy's mother. Alistair's heart skips a beat. What is he supposed to do with the knowledge of having a breathing, living, beautiful, talented son? What does he do knowing he has a child when his wife can't? 

"I would have liked to meet here," the boy admits. "Everyone tells amazing stories." 

"She would have liked to tell you amazing stories herself," Alistair says. "But what if I tried to do my best for her? You know, being married to the Hero is almost liking being the Hero myself." 

"Really?" 

"No, he is a fool." 

Alistair wrinkles his nose. "Would you like to hear about a Witch of the Wild that I met once?" 

Morrigan purses her lips but gives a faint nod at her son. 

Kieran beams. 

Alistair beams. 

He doesn't leave until early light the next morning, when he's sure that he can disappear from this boy's life without the hardship of a goodbye. 

Morrigan's fingers linger on his arm before he goes, warm and unlike the touch he's made himself imagine from that night. 

"Thank you, Alistair." 

"He's wonderful," is all he can manage to choke out. 

**iv.**

The sun feels like an arrow to both of her eyes. She hisses. 

Sigrun laughs. 

Elissa falls to the ground and smells fresh air and buries her face in dirt and grass and probably insects. She doesn't care. It feels so good, all of it. Her nails dig into the ground as she forces herself to roll over. The sun is warm on her face, heating up her skin in inches. She keeps her eyes close, to let them adjust slowly. But this is paradise. 

"Home." 

"Not yet," Bethany murmurs. "But it's close enough."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the end, folks c:
> 
> thank you so much for sticking with me on this journey. it was originally only supposed to be a one shot story, but spanning over ten years is a lot of work and i have had so much fun writing these two. i hope you have enjoyed reading it!

**i.**

Elissa sits in a bath that’s long since gone cold, the water brackish, disgusting. She should have climbed out a long time ago, but she finds that she doesn’t really want to move. And she doesn’t want to call for another bath just yet. She should. 

There are a lot of shoulds. 

“Commander?”

So much for relaxing.

She inclines her head and opens her eyes to find a young servant standing the doorway. The girl fidgets. “Yes?”

“The First Warden requests that you speak to him now.”

“Ah.”

Elissa closes her eyes and leans her head back on the tub. This is the man who refused to let her go home, to her husband, to make sure he was safe and alive. Refused to let her check on her home, on Ferelden. Once more, she was whisked away. Her mouth twists with bitter thought. That’s her own fault though, isn’t it? She left when the world needed her most, when the Wardens needed her.

Still, she had come all the way to Weisshaupt with no companions. Go home, she had told them. Stay in Amaranthine and take care of her, she had ordered Nathaniel when had followed.

Tell Alistair I am well.

“I am in need of another bath.”

“The First Warden--”

“A bath.”

“Yes, Commander.”

**ii.**

“Warden-Commander Theirin.”

“Cousland, actually.”

The First Warden raises his eyebrows at her, and she raises them right back. This is the kind of situation she can feel more comfortable in. Not across a queen looking to tear her down, but a man who thinks himself better than her. Here, she understands these political games. 

He frowns, and she frowns.

“I would have figured the wife of a king would take his name.”

“We did flip a coin about whether he’d take the Cousland name,” she tells him with a quirk of a smile playing on her lips, “but in the end, we realized that the whole point of putting a Theirin bastard on the throne was, you know, the Theirin name.” Elissa shrugs.

He blinks at her, and it looks like he’s struggling physically with the whole idea of it. Or maybe he’s just physically attempting to restrain himself from strangling her. She seems to have that effect on people every now and then. 

“Do you know why I have summoned you here?”

Elissa clasps her hands in front of her body, resting them against her formal armor. There are times for sarcasm and meaningless comments, but now isn’t it. “I embarked on an unsanctioned mission and took a group of Wardens along with me.”

“You did not think to run the idea by us at Weisshaupt?”

“I did not think a personal quest had to be approved, sir. And besides that, I have not had need to request permission since before my father died.”

Well, so much for the serious formality.

The First Warden’s face goes red. The problem, she knows, is that he needs her. And he can be angry, but he still needs her. For her fame and for her connections and for her Andraste-damned skills. For her existence, since Corypheus has destroyed their ranks.

“There is much we must discuss, then.”

**iii.**

Nate is stiff in Alistair’s arms, which is a noticeable difference. The others being that he is much taller than his wife, he does not have her scent, and his nose does present a problem when it comes to kissing. That doesn’t stop the King of Ferelden from throwing his arms around his wife’s most trusted friend and planting a noisy kiss on those unhappy lips.

“Darling, I feel as though the long trip away has changed something about you. Is it the hair?” Alistair pulls back and taps his bottom lip. 

Nate looks more unimpressed with him than most of the nobles in Ferelden. “I’m not sure Elissa would be thrilled that her husband is leaving her for me.”

“As attached as you two can be, it really was hard to tell where my wife ends and you begin.” Even though he knows she’s not there, he still looks behind the Warden in the vain hope that she’s there, around a corner, waiting to play a trick on him. He looks for longer than he wishes he had, because that unimpressed look becomes one of uncomfortable pity.

“She did want me to tell you that she is safe.”

“She said love, didn’t she?” He can’t help it. His eyebrows lift and draw together, and his bottom lip juts out. 

“She said love.” Nate struggles to force that last particular word out, his cheeks a shade of red that only just makes Alistair think of his wife. 

“Why the personal delivery instead of a letter?”

“I thought it best.” Nate shrugs. “And besides, I would like to hear from you what has been happening on the surface.”

Alistair gives a small smile, tinged with disappointment. “Come on, then. Let’s get you a drink and I’ll tell you all about the Inquisition.”

**iv.**

Alistair receives a letter from Kieran before he ever gets one from his own wife. It’s surprising on two fronts. One, he wasn’t aware that the boy would want to send him letters. And two, well, Morrigan. There’s a warm and pleasant sensation in his chest when he holds the letter from the boy. 

He had wanted to disappear and the boy would move on and he would move on. That would be the end of that, of any strange fantasies of fatherhood and being there. He should be there. For his son. So that a child would not feel unwanted in some way, for some reason, all because of strange circumstances.

The paper is rough against his fingertips. He loves the sensation. 

_King Alistair,_

_Mother said that I could write to you, if I wished. She said that you would not mind it at all, but I hope she’s right. I suppose mostly this could be because I have been asking about you a lot since you came to Skyhold to visit with Mother and I._

_She told me a few things about you, but I have so many more questions._

And so Alistair wrote two letters every night.

One to his son.

One to his wife.

**v.**

_Come home to me, Elissa. I am tired of being king alone._

_I’m also tired of sharing our bed with your dog. He’s old and has terrible gas. I’m not impressed._

Her lips twist into a smile as she runs her fingers over her husband’s ridiculous words, his ridiculous letters. 

“It is good to see you so happy, my friend.”

“I have so few things to be happy about, Leliana.” A pause, and Elissa chuckles. “I mean, Divine Victoria.”

Leliana clicks her tongue against her teeth and waves away the title as it is nothing more than a fly bothering her. Strange, how things have worked out. How different the world became in such little time once again, and she had no hand in it this time.

Elissa can’t tell if she feels relief or the need to help in some way. 

“I am truly sorry to keep you away from the thing that makes you most happy longer, in that case.”

“But you have need of me.”

“I have a particular proposition for you.”

Elissa leans forward, over the small table that holds small tea cups and delicate cookies meant for more gentle hands. She takes hold of an old friend’s hands, and she holds them tightly. 

“I am old.”

“You have not yet even hit thirty.”

“I am tired. I am a Warden who can never not be one. I am a Queen who cannot stop being queen. I’m good at maybe one of these things. I want to help, Lels, but I am tired of leaving Alistair.”

There’s a hardness in Leliana’s face that might be frightening to anyone else that didn’t face a giant, demonic dragon and the Mother and a million other things that live in the darkness beneath Ferelden. It’s the kind of look she suspects that many enemies have seen before they died or before they were coerced to join her side. Perhaps, if she had not known Leliana before this, it could have given her pause.

Instead, Elissa presses a kiss to the back of Leliana’s hands, one at a time. 

Leliana softens. “At least keep it in mind. We are at a fragile peace now…”

“I will always be the Hero, Lels.”

The Divine sighs. “The Inquisition could use you.”

“Ah, but you know that I cannot support you either way.”

**vi.**

Alistair ambushes her on her slow journey back home. He knows she’s going to stop in on her old home, to see Fergus and the children. He knows that she is always slow to come home to him, even when she wants nothing more to be with him.

Each time she goes away, their relationship has to be reformed.

Each time she goes away, he has to chase her down.

When she comes riding in, he is waiting in the courtyard for her.

“I knew you would be here.”

“I would have met you in Orlais, but I’d be afraid to start an international incident.”

“Leliana?”

“Leliana.”

Elissa climbs down from her horse, watching him. “You are--”

“--More beautiful--”

“--Than I remember.”

She runs to him this time, taking a leaping jump, her legs wrapping around his waist. He almost falls, her buffoon of a husband, but manages to keep his balance as he keeps hold of her, hands firm on her bottom. She kisses his face. Everywhere, anywhere. She doesn’t care that she smells like horse and dirt and he tastes like sweat. 

“I love you,” she whispers. “I love you.”

He kisses her gently, his mouth moving against hers so sweetly, so soft, that it makes her ache. This is what has always been worth it, the time apart and the way they meet again.

“You are a terrible wife,” he grumbles against her lips.

“Yes. I am the worst, and you are the best, and I will spend the rest of our lives making it up to you.” She kisses him with impatience, eager to move past the slow burn. It has been months, after all, and she is all pent up frustration and anxiety and loneliness. 

“Did you get my letters?” Alistair asks her.

It’s deliberate. It’s punishment. When did he get so good at patience? When did he grow up?

“Every single one.” Elissa cups his face and strokes her thumbs across his cheekbones. She is memorizing every slope and angle and imperfection that makes up her husband’s face as if she doesn’t already have it etched in her mind. “I have so many things to tell you.”

His fingers squeeze her ass tightly. “I have so many things to tell you.”

“Okay, but I get to go first.”

“Why do you get to go first? I don’t think I’ve been keeping you waiting all this time, and I had to deal with the magisters in _our_ country, then there was Corypheus, and really. It was a mess.”

There’s nothing that Elissa can say, because he’s right. He dealt with that, and she went away. So she kisses him again, and when she does, it’s that sweet one. It’s as delicate as Leliana’s cookies. “You first.”

“I love you, Elissa Cousland.”

“Ah.” She laughs, and she hates that she cries, too. Because they’ve said those words a million times in this past decade, and it’s never made her as happy as it does now. “My turn?”

“One thing, and then I can go again.”

“I’m never going to leave you again. I’m done.”

He smiles at her. He kisses the corners of her mouth, the tip of her nose, her eyelids. “You know I know you’re a terrible liar. But never this long again without me.”

“Deal,” she says with a watery chuckle. 

**vii.**

They stay in Highever for a month with her family. 

**viii.**

They start to put Ferelden back together, well, _together_. She is not the queen Ferelden deserves but she is much more level-headed than her husband, and her experience as a Warden-Commander helps.

**ix.**

“I have an idea.”

Elissa looks at from the charter she’s looking over about a mage school when Alistair speaks. “Does it at all involve a bottle of wine and very intriguing dance I learned in Orlais that involves me wearing no clothes?”

He sucks in a breath, and even from across the desk, she can see the way his eyes darken in distraction. She smirks.

“No, and I _hate_ when you do that to me. Because now I wonder what you’re going to do with the wine.”

“Well.” She puts the charter down. “I wouldn’t really want you to be upset with the suggestion. So you should tell me your idea.”

He licks his lips, and she follows the trail of his tongue and thinks about all the things he could do with _that_ instead.

Alistair clears his throat and brings her back down to reality. “I want to name Kieran my heir.”

Elissa goes silent and every dirty thought she has had before this particular moment dies a quick death. “What.”

“I know that… He’s my bastard and who knows what sort of magical ability he will have, and it is risky letting Morrigan that close to power, but… You think it’s a terrible idea, don’t you?”

She’s speechless, sure. It is a very random thing to bring up. She knows they’re in correspondence, and she knows it makes her husband happy. 

And this is what she’s been talking about for years, right? For them to have an heir to throne.

She supposes she just never thought that it would be the son she coerced him into having. 

“I figure that Morrigan will listen to you, Elissa. She always has.”

Elissa snorts. “Except for the time that she left me to go live in a mirror world.”

“It’s a terrible idea, then?”

She shakes her head. “No.”

It’s the best idea that they have. She’s not even thirty, but she will never have children. And she had suggested he have another bastard so they could raise the child, but this makes more sense. It would bring Ferelden into another new age, one that reflects the state of the world as it is. A mage as king. She has never met Kieran, but he seems smart and curious and capable.

Alistair stares at her with a hopeful expression, and her heart swells. She loves him enough to want this for him. 

“I will support your decision to make him heir of the Ferelden throne.”

“Now we just have to find Morrigan and convince her.”

“Yes.” Elissa gets to her feet, wrapping her hand around the neck of the wine bottle. “But first.”

**x.**

For the first time in ten years, they go on an adventure together.


End file.
